Daughter of Slytherin
by Freya Ishtar -ON HIATUS
Summary: The War was won, and all was well. Or so Hermione Granger thinks, until the night escaped Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle turns up in her kitchen, her broken wand in his hands and a story she can't bring herself to believe tumbling from his lips. (Tropes: marriage law/betrothal, pureblood!Hermione, ancient conspiracies)
1. Chapter 1

**1) This was originally a weekly update story, but eventually the story progressed so far beyond what I expected (and beyond the pre-written content I'd stored up for it) that it is now updated sporadically, as many of my other fics. This story IS NOT ABANDONED, and will continue to completion, there simply is not an update schedule/deadline currently in place.**

**2)** Chapter lengths will vary. I only write my chapters long enough to accomplish what they need to within the story. I also do not write filler.

**3)** I will not post any faster than once a week. This is to give_ all_ readers time to catch up on what's available before the next chapter posts.

**Prepare to be quite confused for the first handful of chapters. That's intentional. You lot are supposed to be on the same page with Hermione as far as not knowing what the F is going on. ;)**

*****Contains dialogue which may be considered _mild_ Ron-bashing by some readers in opening chapter.

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**Fancast:**

**(If you do not agree with my fancast choices, feel free to imagine whomever you prefer in these roles **[literally the only reason I post fancast lists is because when I don't, I get barraged with questions about who I picture as the characters]**)**

Chris Hemsworth as _Thorfinn Rowle_; Henry Cavill as _Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort_ (in flashback); Rami Malek as _Harry Potter_; Adrian Brody as _Severus Snape_ (in flashback), Alexander Skarsgard as _Lucius Malfoy_; Charlize Theron as _Narcissa Malfoy_; Michiel Huisman as _Antonin Dolohov_; Jason Momoa as _Fenrir Greyback_; Bella Thorn as _Ginny Weasley_; Luke Evans as _Salazar Slytherin _(in flashback). **Characters not listed in fancast are assumed portrayed by their film canon counterparts.**

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**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter,_ or any affiliated characters, and make no profit in any form from this work.

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**Chapter One**

Hermione slammed the door, uncaring of Ronald's shouted _ouch _from the other side as the wood undoubtedly connected with the tip of his nose. The fuming witch turned her gaze on a wide-eyed Harry as he sat on the sofa in her parents' living room—her parents who were still in Australia until the Ministry was back on its feet and could safely sort how to reverse the modified memory charm she'd cast on them.

All riled up by Ron Weasley's buffoonery as it was, she snapped her next words without thinking. "You want some, too?"

Wincing, her best friend stood, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't say a word."

"Fine," Ron bellowed from behind the door. "But this isn't over."

"It certainly is!" Hermione bellowed right back, in utter disbelief she'd liked that insensitive, thoughtless, juvenile . . . anti-_her_-if-anyone-ever-was wizard for so long! "_We _are over, Ronald!"

"If that's what you want!"

God, _why_ was he still standing there? "It is!"

"Fine, then!"

Stomping across the floor, she dropped herself into the armchair and buried her face in her hands. She was aware of Harry's gaze, gaping in confusion as he looked from her, to the slammed door—complete with the sound of Ron's footfalls retreating down the porch steps—and back.

Lowering himself to sit back down where he'd been a moment ago, he shrugged. "I'm not even sure what the hell I just walked into."

Eyeing him for a handful of seconds, Hermione let the rage flood out of her. She didn't want to direct her anger at Ron anywhere but the place that ugly emotion belonged. The change in her posture was immediate as her frame slumped and she all but melted back against the seat's cushions.

Harry snickered, his brows pinching together behind the wire rims of his glasses at her deflated demeanor. "Ready to tell me now?"

"Well, you remember the Battle of Hogwarts?"

"Big blow up between us and a bunch of Dark Wizards, a resurrected mad man, and every evil beast he could sway to his side a little over a month ago? Yeah, I vaguely recall something like that."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help laughing. "Okay, well, you _recall_ that's sort of when Ron and I became official. Right? There was some snogging, he called me his girlfriend, that was sort of that. We were 'together,' right?"

"As far as everyone's been led to believe."

Scowling at the wariness in his tone, she forced herself to continue. "Right, well, I had told him . . . ." With a sigh, she shook her head and let her eyes drift closed. "Okay, remember back when I was dating Viktor? When I mentioned to you that he and I didn't do much talking?"

For a few heartbeats, he only stared at her. "You mean when I gave you 'that look' and you promptly informed me that what you meant was just that he watched you study?"

Snapping open her eyes to meet his gaze, she frowned. "Yeah, I might've been lying about that."

"Hermione," he said, his tone playfully scolding.

The witch shrugged. "Please. I was 15 and my boyfriend was a 17 year old internationally famous athlete. What d'you think was going to happen? I'm the same girl who went looking for the basilisk, smacked Draco Malfoy in the face, formed a secret army, and rode a bloody dragon. I'm not skittish about other things, I've no idea why you might assume I'd be shy about intimacy."

"Point there."

"Right?" Exhaling another sigh, she shook her head. "But, you know, there's a difference between when it's someone you've just met and there's a spark, and someone who's been in another role in your life entirely up until that point. I told Ron that I wanted us to take things slow, because we have been friends for so long I didn't want to do anything to mess that up. If things didn't work out between us, I wanted us to still be able to go back to that—after a bit of fighting and moping, naturally, but eventually, yeah."

"And he what?"

"I'm going to tell you this, but it doesn't leave this room. And . . . try not to judge him for it, he's still one of our best friends."

"Don't know if I should brace myself or run into the kitchen for some popcorn."

Laughing in spite of herself, Hermione reached across to slap Harry on his elbow. "I'm serious."

Catching her hand in his, he held it in a gentle grip. "I know. Won't breathe it to a soul, promise."

"Not even Ginny?"

Those familiar green eyes of his narrowed at her, but a half-grin curved his lips just as fast. "Not even Ginny."

"Okay." Clearing her throat, Hermione nodded. She darted her gaze about the floor, unable to hold Harry's eyes as she explained. "About the first few days we were together, we got up to quite a bit, but I refused to let him get too far. At first he was fine with that, but . . . we were talking about past relationships, I told him about what really went on between Viktor and me. I hadn't thought anything of it, because, you know, of him and Lavender. Turned out? Wasn't the same."

Harry winced.

"Yeah. And, well, ever since he found out I'm not a virgin he's been pressuring me. I told him I'm not ready. I know, I _know_ he feels betrayed, like I shared something with someone else that I'm not _willing _to share with him, but he just doesn't understand that they're two different situations."

He nodded. "So, you mean like, if you two had just met and started dating, no prior friendship, as opposed to someone who's been in your face that last seven years?"

She laughed and shook her head again. "Actually yes." Sitting forward, she braced her elbows on her knees. "I said I don't want you judging him because I know he's hurt by it, and he's lashing out because he's in pain, with everything that happened . . . his brother dying, all the friends we lost, even you and Ginny getting together, because it highlights how strained _our _relationship is . . . this is just another hurt to add onto the pile, and I get that, but that's not a reason for me to give in. I mean, your first time with someone you care for as much as he and I are supposed to shouldn't be a pity-shag."

Sighing, Harry stood from the sofa and stepped over to her. He smooshed himself into the armchair beside her, bringing another laugh out of her. Hell, he might not be able to fix any of her problems, but he always knew how to make her smile. "I understand. I think it says a lot that you're aware that he doesn't realize how he's acting."

"Maturity, yay, me," she said, her voice flat. "He _doesn't _realize how petty he's being. Every time I said no, he threw my past with Viktor in my face. If he was trying to hurt me so I can feel what he's feeling, mission accomplished. I just finally had it. I know it doesn't seem like a lot of time to have 'had it' with something, but this was only a week after War's End we had that talk, and I swear, it's like I've been dodging his cock ever since!"

"Hermione!" Harry's shocked voice was edged with humor as he stared at her wide-eyed.

Hermione burst out laughing herself, realizing how much she'd needed to let it out. Even if it was a bit vulgar, even if it wasn't the sort of thing anyone would ever expect her to say. And suddenly the mental image of Ron's penis chasing her around as she tried to duck and hide was all she could think about as she gasped for air, her eyes watering and tears spilling down her cheeks.

When she managed to pull herself together, she sank back against the cushion beside Harry. He was shaking his head, but smiling, as he watched her wipe her cheeks.

"So that's really it? You two are over?"

She exhaled slow and deep as she let her eyes drift closed. "Yeah. I want things to go back to how they were, if that's even possible, but I know it'll take a while. He feels like I've wronged him, and he's waiting for me to apologize, or ask forgiveness, but I haven't actually done anything for him to forgive or that I should apologize for. If anything is ever going to be 'okay' between us again, he's going to have to realize that. I think he will, just . . . he has to get past this part where it's all raw emotions."

"You know he's never been good with emotions."

Her brows drew upward as she nodded, breathing out a short snicker. Finally, she decided she'd have enough of talking about this. "So, what're you doing here?"

"Oi, I can't just pop over to see you?"

She held his gaze, her features pinching in a suspicious expression.

"I, um, I wanted to come talk to you about the trip."

"The trip?" she echoed, confused.

"Yeah, um, we're all going. Me, Ron, Gin, all . . . all the Weasleys." Harry held up his hands before he went on. "Just until the end of the summer. It's not even my idea, honestly, just . . . . Mrs. Weasley thinks everything's been too hard on, well, on the entire family, really. She's invited me to vacation with them—get George out of England for a while before Gin has to return to Hogwarts in September." He chewed on his lower lip before he tacked on, "Mrs. Weasley wouldn't have just left you out. I'm guessing Ron wanted to be the one to ask you to come along."

Hermione didn't know what to say. She adored the Weasley clan, but after what just happened between her and Ron, she couldn't imagine going abroad with them for two months. Her luck, it would be some inadvertently romantic setting, she'd let herself get swept up in the place, end the trip back together with him only to return home and realize what a colossal mistake she'd made and have an even more difficult time trying to break up with him_ again_. Worse, if she hadn't broken up with him just now and he'd invited her, she might've accepted and getting swept up wouldn't mean rekindling things, it would mean not seeing the harm in taking that step she wasn't sure they were ready for and then returning home and realizing that they'd made a mistake.

She had no idea which was worse; just thinking about it was exhausting. She also thought Harry was maybe forgetting how quickly Mrs. Weasley had turned on her during fourth year all based on some ruddy gossip column thanks to Rita Skeeter. Molly Weasley was many lovable things, but she was also short tempered and quick to judge in a way that Hermione imagined wouldn't do well for her once the matriarch learned of her son's broken heart. Sure, it was more like his wounded ego, but Hermione knew boys typically weren't aware there was a difference.

They all had enough wounds to heal without relationship drama getting in the way.

"Maybe it's for the best that he didn't," she offered, smiling a bit sadly.

Harry slumped a bit beside her. "C'mon, 'Mione. You know it's not going to be the same without you. You're family."

She bumped her shoulder against his. "I know, and I love that you all think of me that way, I _do_, but . . . this isn't just about me. I think it actually might be better for him, too, that we have time away from each other."

He nodded, aware she might just be right about that. Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd gone the entire summer without seeing her, himself. Second year, maybe? When she'd come back from France all tanned and her wild golden-brown hair a bit sun-bleached?

Hermione Granger had been by his side through so much. Maybe a little time apart was good for the two of them, as well.

"I'm going to miss you."

"I know, because you adore me. It's just one summer Harry, I'll be fine."

Harry chuckled, reaching between them to pinch her side.

"Ow, hey!" She slapped at his hand. "Wait, you're not leaving just yet, are you?"

"No. But Mrs. Weasley did plan things at the last minute, so we leave first thing Friday."

Hermione nodded. That was only two days away. She couldn't imagine what Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going through after losing Fred. Once everything had settled down after the funerals for the fallen, they must've jumped to find the first available trip they could afford, hoping the change of scenery might help the family to heal a bit better than being someplace bombarded by constant memories of what had been.

"Well, if I help you pack you'll have time to sit here and watch some telly with me right now, yeah?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Who said I need help packing?"

Her brows pinched together as she waited for him to cave. After a moment, he sighed. "Okay, you're right. Fine. Tonight telly, tomorrow packing, fair?"

Hermione nodded, grinning as she reached to grab the remote control from the coffee table. "Fair."

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Sunday evening Hermione awoke from another bizarre dream. Sitting up in bed, she switched on her bedside lamp and looked about. She could hear her own rapid breaths in her ears as she tried to calm herself. This was going to be just like every night before—she'd look around and find nothing amiss.

She certainly wasn't going to find some dark-haired stranger lurking through her room.

Yet, that was precisely what she kept seeing. Oh, but it wasn't only in her room while she slept. No. She had the feeling, ever since the war had ended—ever since Voldemort had fallen, in fact—that she was being watched. Followed, maybe.

That there were eyes on her, always.

That certainly hadn't helped the Ron situation. She'd actually gone to see them off, Mrs. Weasley had been surprisingly understanding about the matter, chocking up the entire thing to the messy effects the aftermath war could have on emotions. Ginny had promised to bring her back something lovely, and George had hugged her so hard she'd thought he might be trying to pop her eyes from her skull. Even Percy and Charlie were going, while Bill had taken Fleur back to France to be with her family for a bit.

Ron hadn't said much to her before they'd left, but she'd sort of been expecting that. Though, to his credit, he offered her an almost warm smile as she waved bon voyage. The expression, she was near positive, was meant to tell her things weren't okay between them now, but they _would_ be in time. She thought maybe he finally understood. Or Ginny had gotten him to see at least a little bit of reason.

Yet, as she turned away to start home, she stopped short, certain she'd glimpsed someone from the corner of her eye. Someone with their full attention focused on her. But when she looked, she found no one at all.

She hadn't mentioned it to anyone. They'd only worry, and she was sure it was probably something perfectly normal, like post traumatic stress—something which Wizarding kind was lousy with, but didn't seem to appreciate the Muggle labeling. She'd survived a war, for pity's sake, more attempts on her life than she could rightly keep track of, and outright torture.

It was safe to say she _deserved_ for her nerves to be more wrought out than she'd let herself believe. After that first night, she checked her wards, assuring herself no one could Apparrate, or Floo, into her parents' home. Dream or no dream, she'd felt rattled.

Maybe she'd seen him somewhere? On the battlefield, maybe? Peeling back her covers—damn dreams always left her in a cold sweat—she climbed out of bed and stretched. Perhaps the memory was of some person she'd glimpsed fleetingly _as_ Voldemort had finally fallen?

The dreams were always the same, too. She'd watch the stranger creeping around her room, as though searching for something. He'd sense her scrutiny, she thought, and then he'd turn to pin her with an unnaturally bright green-eyed gaze. Not like Harry's eyes at all, no. Whoever this man was, his eyes just about glowed in the night-dark of her room. He'd step over to her bed and, in a strange gesture, sweep his robes—robes, definitely not a Muggle she was imagining—close to his person so that he might perch on the edge of her mattress.

Looking down at her, those impossible eyes would crinkle at the corners as he spoke. But she couldn't catch his words, she never caught his words. He'd reach out, the gesture strangely familiar, almost fatherly, as though he were about to tuck some of her mad locks behind her ear.

Each time, though, she awoke just as his fingers came within a hair's breadth of brushing her cheek.

However, this time was different. She couldn't be certain what had happened tonight to wake her so abruptly, dragging her out of the dream sooner than usual—not as he'd come to her bedside to speak to her, but in those first unsettling moments of him skulking through the darkness as if in search of something. It felt as though she were watching one of those nighttime telly reenactments of a residual haunting in some Muggle's house—always repeating, cyclical, something that would occur whether or not she was there to observe the scene. Perhaps that's why the dreams took on a truly surreal sense when he acknowledged her.

But what was different tonight? Shaking her head, she realized her throat felt a bit parched. She'd been awakened by some strange snapping she'd felt in the center of her chest.

Across the upper floor and down the stairs she tried to put a reason to the feeling. Whatever it was, it seemed to vibrate through her ribcage. Through the living room and dining room, she puzzled over that bizarre, bone-rattling zing.

Again shaking her head at herself, she crossed the threshold into her kitchen and switched on the light.

In the flood of illumination that followed, a scream caught in her throat at the sight that greeted her. Looking perfectly at home—there, in the dark, in the middle of the night, quite apparently waiting for her—sat Thorfinn Rowle. Somehow he managed to still seem massive while seated, his black robes settled around him against the sweetly pleasant backdrop of her mother's beige-and-soft-peach kitchen decorating scheme and his golden hair, looking freshly-cut, glinted a bit harshly beneath the light.

There were wards on the house, sure, but nothing could truly prevent a determined witch or wizard from finding a way in, and from the look of satisfaction on his face—surely, satisfaction at how shocked she must appear just now—she'd say he'd been_ very_ determined.

She backpedaled a step, ready to run back to her room to grab her wand, but as she moved, he held up his hands. There, grasped in his fingers was her weapon . . . splintered in two.

That was what that sensation in her chest had been. She'd_ felt_ the breaking of her wand.

Hermione swallowed hard, the very weight of the air in the room pressing down on her. Pulling her gaze from his, she darted her attention around in search of a weapon—this was a ruddy kitchen, after all, maybe she'd thoughtlessly left out a knife where she might easily reach it now.

Nothing. Bloody hell. If she didn't know any better, she might think he'd actually cleaned up in here to prevent the very thing she'd just thought of doing.

"You looked so peaceful when I sneaked into your room to snatch this off your nightstand," he said with a careless shrug as he set the broken wood down upon the table top. "I nearly felt bad about it. But then I remembered how I was tortured until that memory charm you slapped on me broke and suddenly, bad feelings went 'poof.'"

Holding up her hands, she kept her gaze trained on his arms for a few heartbeats, waiting for him to draw his wand on her, but he didn't make any move toward doing so. "Are you here to kill me? I'm sure there's many other people you could've evaded Azkaban to hunt down, so maybe I should feel flattered?"

"No, you whimsy little brat. _Were_ I here to kill you, you'd already be—" His words stopped short as she turned on her heel and bolted through the house. "Hell," he breathed the sound, shaking his head as he got to his feet and chased after her.

Hermione nearly crashed into the front door in her hurry, one hand gripping the knob as she scrambled to pull open the bolt. Just as fast, however, she heard his thundering footfalls closing in on her.

No sooner had she forced open the lock than had he wrapped one arm around her waist. He hoisted her backward, away from the door. Turning, Thorfinn held her easily despite the way she was struggling as she cursed up a storm. The furious witch held so that she was pinned against his hip, he trooped back to the kitchen.

He sat right back down in that same chair, appearing wildly unimpressed—and notably unfazed—by how much she raged and fought against him, settling her in his lap with staggeringly little effort. It only seemed to stoke her ire when he propped the elbow of his free arm on the table and proceeded to lazily examine his nails.

After a few moments, however, he sighed. "You got much more of this in you? 'Cause I've got nowhere else to be, and in case you've not noticed, none of your Muggle neighbors are coming to your rescue because I'm not as stupid as you've probably hoped. I cast a silencing charm on the perimeter of the house."

Hermione froze. She tried to ignore how very aware she was of his body beneath hers as she stilled against him. He'd been telling the truth—he wasn't here to kill her. If he had been, he could've easily done so when she'd been asleep upstairs. He wasn't here to torture her in recompense for whatever torment Voldemort had inflicted upon him to break her memory charm, he could've drawn his wand at any time and unleashed a fearsome Crucio on her.

Swallowing hard, she struggled to find her voice as she turned her head. When she met his gaze, whatever she might've said died on her lips.

Thorfinn smirked, nodding as he arched a brow. "Have your attention now, do I?"

A scowl that was pure anger and darkness marred her features. She asked in a clipped tone, "Not much choice have I? What is it you want?"

That smirk only widened. "It's not what I want, at all. It's what's wanted of _you_. I bring a message from your father."

"My father?" Hermione shook her head, all venom draining from her with those words. "How could_ you_ have a message from—?"

"Oh, no, no," Thorfinn deliberately cut her off as he shook his head. "I don't mean that simpering Muggle who raised you. I mean, your _real _father."

The witch had no idea what he was saying, as though she'd lost her ability to comprehend the English language as she stared at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**OMG! I honestly did not expect so much excitement for this story! Thank you SO much! **TBH, I was kind of more expecting everyone to be like "Weekly updates? You? Yeah, okay, Freya," because we all know I have rubbish self-control and constantly want to share things with you guys the SECOND they're written, which often leads to that 'many updates in two weeks, and then NONE for a year' mess I typically find myself in. So, thank you for being so excited and so supportive and so eager for more of this story (it would suck to have a bunch of chapters lined up and waiting if everyone was like "yeah, this um, this really isn't your best work DX."** So, seriously, THANK YOU!**

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**Chapter**** Two**

Tipping his head around her shoulder as he held the unhappy witch's gaze, he narrowed his eyes. After a moment of appraising her expression—and oh, she did not like that he not only _wasn't_ letting her go, but that he was able to keep her put precisely where she was with so little effort on his part—he said, "You honestly have no idea what I'm talking about, have you?"

She shifted side to side in his hold before she seemed to become painfully aware that she was squirming _against _the wizard's lap. Sitting up straighter, she tried to remain perfectly still. "No, I 'honestly' don't. My real father? My real father _is_ the Muggle of whom you speak so unkindly. He's currently far away from here and would have no reason to encounter any wizards, let alone give them a message for me."

"Shit. No wonder you're having fits right now!" Thorfinn shook his head, a truly frightening scowl marring his features. "The charm was supposed to break when that snake-faced bastard died."

She was too startled at hearing a known Death Eater refer to Voldemort in such a disparaging manner that she couldn't think of anything to say just then. This man was clearly mad.

"You really can't remember—"

"Wait." There were so many thoughts suddenly crashing around in Hermione's head, but there was something in what he'd just said—when that snake-faced bastard _died_—that stood out to her. Hadn't she already connected that precise moment to what she'd been feeling recently? Being watched, being followed . . . the strange, repetitive dreams about that dark-haired wizard?

Swallowing hard, she tore her gaze from Thorfinn's as she said, "What charm?"

He frowned, watching her expression. "Going to actually listen now, or are you going to thrash around a bit more? Because I was honestly starting to not mind you bouncing about like that."

Warmth flooded her cheeks as she gaped at him. There was so much wrong with whatever was happening here.

"Oh, suppose you are all about listening now. Fine, then." He retrieved something from within the folds of his cloak and set it on the table before her. Wrapped in black silk, Hermione wasn't certain what it was—though if she had to wager, her money would be on a wand—but she clasped her hands in her lap in response, almost afraid to brush even the tip of one of her fingers against the shrouded object by accident. "Hope you're comfortable, because it's a bit of a story."

Hermione hated that she wasn't actually _un_comfortable in his lap. She covered over the entirely_ other_ sort of discomfort the realization caused her by talking. "Maybe you could sit me in a chair, then?"

"And give you the chance to go scampering off again? I don't bloody think so."

Her brow furrowed as she became cognizant of one very simple thing about this . . . interaction. "Why haven't you used your wand? You chased me down on foot when a Stunner or a Petrificus would've been faster. You've not even drawn it."

"Because if I use magic on you, I'm going to have a whole mess of people angry with me."

She shook her head. "Wha . . . ?"

"Feeling like you're going a bit mad, yeah?"

"You think?"

Thorfinn actually snickered.

"Oh, for pity's sake, Rowle! Will you just tell me what's been happening to me since Voldemort died?!"

He went very still beneath her. Leaning his head down just a little further, he caught her gaze once more. "So you _do _remember something?"

Well, this was getting her nowhere fast. "Remember what?" Frustrated at her own lack of understanding as to what the bloody hell was going on, she slammed her fists against the tabletop. "I have no idea why a Death Eater might be in trouble with a 'whole mess' of people for using magic on a Mudblood like me, and I still can't for the life of me figure out what any of this has to do with my dad, or why you'd think he isn't my father. I haven't the foggiest idea about _anything_!"

There was a flicker through his blue eyes in that moment of something she thought might be sympathy. "Okay. So then, tell me what you meant by 'what's been happening' to you?"

She didn't want to have this conversation with him of all people, but then who did she really have to turn to just now? And he might actually have answers.

"All right, let's do it this way," he said, sounding oddly reasonable. "You tell me something, I'll tell you something. Fair?"

Hermione managed a slow nod. This was all so bizarre and . . . . She was suddenly very aware of her own breathing, of how deafening the silence was when they were both quiet. This couldn't be happening.

"Since Voldemort fell . . . as in the _moment_ he fell, I've had the sense of not being alone. There's never anyone there, but sometimes I could swear I see someone, there and then gone before I can really get a look at them." She had no idea why, but as she answered, there was the rough, thick feeling of tears clogging her throat.

He nodded, dropping his gaze to the tabletop, where his fingers toyed with the very edge of the black silk. "Is that all?"

Her shoulders sloped as she watched his hand. She wasn't sure if she should tell him—what could he possibly have to say to her that would give reason to all of this? What could he possibly do with the information she furnished him?

Nothing. If he was full of rubbish, he was still considered a war criminal, still at large. There was no one he could turn to with the notion that Hermione Granger might be going 'round the bend who'd believe his words.

Exhaling slow, she closed her eyes. "In my sleep, there's a man I see. I don't know what's happening at first, I never know what's happening at first, and it's terrifying." She thought she must be imagining the sensation of his arm tightening ever so slightly around her, even more so that if felt like a reaction to her speaking of her fear. "But then he stops whatever he's doing and he comes close, like he's checking on me, and I'm not scared anymore. And then I wake up. It's been the same every night since War's End."

Thorfinn nodded. "Would you know this man from your dream if you saw him?"

Pursing her lips, Hermione nodded back. Of course she would! She'd been watching his face, drawing nearer, watched him loom over her as he sat on the edge of her bed and reached toward her every night for the last five weeks and a half weeks!

He sank his fingers into the black silk, but only on one side, she noticed. To her, he seemed a bit afraid to accidentally unshroud the item. From the folds, he pulled out a rolled up bit of canvas. She could tell from the size of the piece that when unfurled, it would be no larger than a Muggle Post-it.

Sliding it before her, he asked as he tapped a finger against the roll, "He look anything like that?"

She could feel it as her brows pinched hard, furrowing particularly deep as she stared at it. Why on earth was she afraid? There was no way the face of the man she'd seen could be on that. The edges were shorn, as though the scrap had been cut from a larger piece, or out of a small frame. Regardless of what it had been separated from, however, she could tell by how worn and discolored the back appeared that it was quite old.

"It isn't going to bite you."

Hermione jumped at Thorfinn's voice breaking the quiet of the room and she rolled her eyes at herself. Snatching up the ruddy piece of canvas, she unrolled it between her fingers. At first glance, she dropped it back down on the table. Once again she felt strangely aware of her own skin, of the weight of the air in the room and the air filling her lungs and escaping again as she breathed.

Steeling herself, she picked it up and looked again. It _was_ him. The long, jet curls that brushed his shoulders, the green eyes—the ones that crinkled at the corners when he drew close to her each night—the medieval nobleman's beard. The image was only a bust, but it was enough to give her a glimpse of the fine, richly green robes he wore and how he held his wand arm across his chest, brandishing the weapon proudly. In true form of a Wizarding portrait, the man was tilting his head and readjusting his posture, as though trying to decide on _the _most regal pose, but clearly the magic had been depleted somehow, because the image moved like a photograph, not the full range of motion and vocal capacity of a portrait, and he seemed to take no notice that he was being observed. Unable to help herself, she brought the bit of canvas closer to her face for a better examination. The striped pattern of his wand felt . . . familiar.

"Is that snakewood?"

"It is."

She shook her head, cognizant of Thorfinn sputtering and waving his hand in front of his face as her movement brushed her wild hair back and forth over his nose. "This isn't possible, though. How can . . . how can this be him?"

"So this is the man you see?"

"Yes. Who is he? Am I being haunted?"

"In a way."

Oh, now Hermione'd just had it. She shifted in his lap to sit sideways so that she could actually look at him while holding this conversation, since he'd made it clear he wasn't going to let her go any time soon. "What d'you mean 'in a way?' It's obvious this painting is ancient. So, that means he's a ghost and he either is haunting me or he isn't!"

"You're being haunted, I guess you could say, yes." He pursed his lips for a quiet moment as he held her gaze. "But it's not a ghost that's haunting you. It's a memory."

"I don't understand."

"You really don't know who he is?"

Frowning, she looked again.

"The wand doesn't seem familiar? Maybe you read about it somewhere? I mean, how common _are _snakewood wands, really? Not even Voldemort, the self-proclaimed heir of Slytherin, had one!"

There it was again, that note of condescension in his voice as he mentioned Voldemort, and the sense that the words dripped loathing as he said _heir of Slytherin_. There was also a dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. "He was the heir, the Basilisk obeyed him."

Thorfinn tutted at her. "He was an heir in the term of being a descendant and distant relation, yeah okay, and he spoke Parseltongue, so I suppose he fit the bill 'close enough,' sure."

Shaking her head again, she ignored that point. " But . . . Salazar Slytherin? _This _man—" she held up the square of canvas for both of them to see clearly—"is Salazar Slytherin?" The face in the scrap of portrait didn't match the pale, white-haired old man with the angry, red-rimmed eyes she recalled from her school texts, but then she supposed no one was born old. This _could_ be the same man in much younger days.

"The one and only."

"You're not making what's going on any clearer, Rowle." Hermione knew something was wrong. Her brain was refusing to process whatever was happening here. "I can't be seeing Salazar Slytherin. He'd have killed someone like me if he'd ever met me while he was alive. You said information for information, but I seem to be the one doing most of the information-giving."

His brows drew upward as he spared a moment to study her features. "True. Well, okay, then." A smirk curved one corner of his mouth as he gave a minute shake of his head. "I'm going to warn you, though. You're really not going to like this story."

The witch rolled her eyes. "Can you please spare me the—?"

"Salazar Slytherin is your father," he blurted out, his patience with her finally reaching its end. "Bollocks, woman. Ask me for information and then interrupt me? Merlin! D'you _ever_ stay shut?"

"My fa . . . ?" She shook her head, a strange feeling of nothingness stealing over her as her face fell. In her mind, she understood she should be brushing him off for saying something so unbelievably ridiculous, or angry with him for whatever idiotic trick he was trying to play on her, because that was what this _must_ be, but she could only stare back at him in that state of bizarre numbness.

"That's impossible." Her words seemed to hang in the air between them, utterly lifeless.

"Why?" That infuriating smirk of his reappeared.

"He lived a thousand years ago. That's pretty much it." She forced herself to shrug, the gesture more out of trying to approximate some proper behavior in response to this utterly mad scenario than driven by any genuine feeling. "This is completely ridiculous, Rowle. Even_ if_ my dad wasn't my father, I was born in 1979. As for lineage, there's no way I'd even be his great-great—"

"Were you?"

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"_Were _you born in 1979?"

Hermione's head was beginning to ache—an awful hammering right behind her forehead. "What are you asking me?" Why couldn't she make sense of what was going on? "I don't understand, of _course _I was."

Thorfinn frowned darkly, his gaze scanning hers before looking around her head, as though he could see some affect in the air caused by the sudden screaming pain inside it. "Really did a number on you, didn't he?"

"Who did _what _to me? For fuck's sake, Rowle!" She pressed her hands to the sides of her head.

"Goddammit, witch!" He hissed the words from between clenched teeth as he wound his free hand around her upper arm, holding her tighter. "If you'd stop fighting this, you'd start realizing what was done to you. I'm trying to _help_ you."

Unaware she'd started struggling anew in his grasp, she stilled. Confusion widened her eyes as she locked them on his. "Why on earth would_ you_ be trying to help _me_?"

"Because you were wronged. We both were." Again that look that might just be sympathy flashed across his features and he shook his head. "You and I have known each other _much_ longer than you think, you self-righteous little spitfire."

"Wha—?"

"You and I," he said again, cutting her off quite intentionally, "were promised an empire. And I mean to collect."

From the expression that overtook her, he knew she'd just gone from merely wondering if he was mad to wholeheartedly believing he was. She was terrified to move because she didn't know what the 'crazed Death Eater' might do to her in this circumstance if she fought against his delusion—even as recollections teased from the corners of her subconscious. Even as her own magic was struggling to chip away at the bindings cast upon the deepest recesses of her mind.

But that utter bewilderment remained, buried beneath it all. He could see it in her face. She was fighting, aware she should be easily putting everything together—that she should've spoken the words herself by now. She was completely cognizant that something was hindering her ability to think clearly in this.

With a sigh, he pulled the cloth from the table, revealing the heirloom.

She'd hate herself later for the way she shrank away from it, practically seeming to cuddle sideways into Thorfinn Rowle's lap. "Salazar Slytherin's wand?" It looked exactly like the one from that torn scrap of portrait. She had read about it—of _course _she'd read about it, she was Hermione bloody Granger, for all the good that did her right now. "But I don't understand. By all accounts, his wand was destroyed in some tragic debacle involving one of the Ilvermorny school's founders."

"Oh, no." He chuckled, shrugging. "A snakewood wand _was _destroyed. A very convincing reproduction. Did you _really_ think anyone was going to be stupid enough to let your father's wand out of Wizarding Britain?"

There it was again. That mention of that she was the daughter of the pure-blood against whom all other pure-bloods had been measured for a thousand years; the notion put forth that she could be related to him at all, let alone so directly, was absurd. Yet, that absurd notion _still_ drained the color from her face and made her feel as though she might just choke on her own heart. "I can't believe anything you're saying. You've no proof of any of this, have you? No. Just a load of rubbish, that's what this is!"

"Now, whoever said I didn't have proof?" Those blue eyes narrowed in a calculating look as he returned his attention to her ashen face for a moment. "I wasn't sure I ever expected you to believe me without a little help."

Clamping his hand over one of hers, he reached for the wand. A scream tore from her throat as they gripped the weapon and were pulled from her kitchen into the swirling vortex of Portkey travel. As much as she hated his closeness, she was—for the moment—grateful that he still had hold of her as they were sent whirling about. He was the one solid thing amid the unexpected frenzy of motion around her.

He landed hard on his back on the ground and she was not at all happy with the way the entire mess ended with her spilt on top of him. But at least he'd finally relinquished his hold.

Sitting up, she swatted at him arms and chest repeatedly, her features pinched in anger. "What the hell is the matter with you? You are completely fucking barking! I'm a _Muggleborn_, my father is a _Muggle_! I _was _born in 1979! The moment I figure out where I am, I'm going home! You can stay here and rot, you great lummox of a Viking!"

Though her slaps were about as effective as a pixie hitting a troll, Thorfinn showed the good grace to hold up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Looking about—she hated what she was thinking, but it would be the only way back home and away from this _completely_ insane person and whatever _completely_ insane story he was trying to sell her—her gaze landed on the wand. Yes, yes, fine, Salazar Slytherin's long-missing, believed-to-have-been-destroyed-for-centuries wand that had doubled as a Portkey to bring her wherever she currently stood, but now the charm was used up, and she did need a wand to Apparate.

Bouncing off of him, she snatched up the weapon from where it lay on the ground beside him. As she gripped it tight, she aimed it square between his eyes.

"If I ever see you again, I _swear_, I'll—"

"Isn't it a bit early in the day for a lovers' spat?"

Hermione froze. That was the voice of Lucius Malfoy calling from behind her. Swallowing hard, she lifted her shocked gaze from Thorfinn's to look over her shoulder.

Malfoy Manor. And all three Malfoys stood there on the wide front steps, the vast home's double doors open behind them. Lucius, for his part, appeared perfectly awake despite that it was still a few hours until sunrise and was dressed in proper robes as though awaiting company, while Draco was in nightclothes, slippers, and a matched dressing gown, his face and hair visibly sleep-rumpled. Narcissa, with her perfect hair and equally perfect dressing gown over a matched nightdress looked like some starlet from a black and white detective film, ready to tell the police she had no idea why they would think she could have anything to do with her millionaire husband's disappearance.

What chilled Hermione was not who stood there, nor even where they were—though their location was an unpleasant surprise. It was that Lucius Malfoy didn't sound the least bit astonished to see either of them on his property at this ungodly hour.

"Should I guess she doesn't believe you?" he asked, coming down the stairs toward them as he addressed Thorfinn.

"Of course she doesn't believe me, but I wasn't even able to get into the entire story," the younger wizard said as he climbed to his feet and began brushing himself off. "Dumbledore was a bit heavier handed than we thought."

"You're all mad! _All _of you!" she shouted, backpedaling from the house as she shook her head.

"Oh for pity's sake," Narcissa Malfoy said in a breathy tumble of sound, infuriated that men could be such bunglers. Stomping down the steps in a series of light strides and heel clicks, she bypassed the wizards entirely and came to Hermione's side. "I know this is frightening for you, you've no idea what's happening and he's not really explained _anything_, has he?"

The pure-blood witch's uncharacteristically maternal tone caught Hermione off-guard. It both unsettled her and put her at ease at the same time. "He . . . ." Hermione shook her head, fighting the pain in her skull that seemed to be getting stronger the longer she stood here—or perhaps the longer she held the wand? "He tried to but, I can't believe the things he said. I can't . . . I can't understand anything, and I can't understand why I can't understand," she admitted, her voice dropping decibel by decibel as she spoke, swaying on her feet as the pain kicked off a ripple of nausea in the pit of her stomach and her head swam.

"Get her inside, now," Narcissa snapped, her icy blue eyes wide as she noted the beads of sweat breaking out along the girl's hairline.

Too overcome with the pain pressing behind her eyes and sourness twisting in her gut to fight anyone, Hermione showed her displeasure for her circumstances by letting loose a string of hushed curses while Thorfinn scooped her up. "I hate you," she said as they all started for the doors of Malfoy Manor, her voice barely a thread of sound.

"This might surprise you, but those are the very same words you said to me the first time we met."

Her brow furrowed. Why wouldn't the world stop dancing around her? And why the bloody hell was she still gripping this evil wand as though it were a life line? "When was that?"

He nodded, sucking his teeth as they reached the top of the steps. "Merlin, we've got a lot to talk about."

Hermione turned her head, catching Draco's gaze with her own.

Her former classmate held up his hands. "Don't look at me, I'm the last one they told about this. Well, except for you, apparently," he said as he pivoted on his heel and followed them into the manor.

The doors swung closed behind the group and Hermione thought—even amid her pain and disorientation and nausea—that there was a chilling sense of finality in the sound, in the way it seemed to echo through her head as they sealed shut.


	3. Chapter 3

**Please Note**: My names for the Grangers come from a story I wrote back when. They are literally only acknowledged in canon as Dr. & Mrs. (which was stupid in itself, because her mother was also a Dr.), or Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

She must've nodded off as he carried her through the massive house, because the next thing Hermione knew, she was settled on a particularly cushy chaise. Forcing open her eyes—God, even the soft illumination of the candlelit chandelier overhead seemed to hurt—she was met with the concerned face of Narcissa Malfoy. The blonde witch was carefully dabbing Hermione's face with a cool, damp cloth.

Looking past the other woman as she sat perched on the edge of the chaise, Hermione searched the room. The five of them were gathered in a lovely, dark-wood accented parlor. Lucius stood in profile, pouring over some enormous, aged tome in his hands, Draco leaned against a wall, unsuccessfully fighting off a yawn, and Thorfinn . . . .

Thorfinn Rowle paced back and forth before Lucius, appearing quite impatient . . . flustered, even. His hand waving in a circular gesture, he spoke to the elder Malfoy in a hushed rumble of sound. Possibly he was relaying to Lucius what he'd noted during their conversation in her kitchen? What was it Thorfinn had said? _Really did a number on you, didn't he?_ Presumably, the 'he' in question was Dumbledore, since Thorfinn'd gone on to tell Lucius that the deceased Hogwarts headmaster had been a bit more 'heavy-handed' with her than they'd thought.

That seemed correct, so far. Lord, her head throbbed.

"Finally awake, are you?" Narcissa asked in a low voice.

"I've no idea what's happening to me," Hermione admitted, not really caring if she sounded weak in front of the Malfoys just now. Her ability to withstand _anything_ had dwindled in a blink; the pain radiating through her, the sick twisting in her stomach, chipping away at her emotional and physical fortitude. She simply wanted answers, even ridiculous answers that she couldn't bring herself to believe were true.

"You've apparently been fighting the breaking of several very strong, layered charms that have been cast on you over the years." Narcissa sighed, a sound of distinct displeasure. "He really didn't want you remembering anything. Not that you could've had very much to remember, given how young you were. So unnecessary a measure."

"I don't understand why he'd do that," the younger witch agreed, frowning. Her voice was only escaping in a whisper and she hadn't even meant for that, but it seemed to steal her breath just to speak at all.

"Because he was a man who knew a means to an end when he saw one," Lucius chimed in unexpectedly, though he didn't look up from his research—at least Hermione assumed it was research, given the current situation. "I very much doubt he intended you any actual harm, if that sets your mind at ease at all. He probably didn't believe anyone but he could have realized your true parentage, so he likely planned to have you live out the rest of your days under a happy lie."

She completely ignored the second part of his statement. "A means to an end? How could that be me? What are you even talking about?"

He snapped shut the book and pivoted on his heel to face her directly. "Come now, Miss Granger," he said her surname with a hint derision, she noticed. "Surely you've been aware all this time that your friend Harry Potter would not have succeeded in ending Voldemort without_ you _at his side, yes?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Salazar Slytherin was a genius in nearly every sense of the term, it is only natural that if Dumbledore learned of you, he'd assume that you would follow in your father's footsteps. He assessed your intellectual worth, your magical skill, even at so young an age as you were entering Hogwarts, only just coming into your abilities, and set you in Potter's path."

Hermione winced, shuddering. "This can't be true, it just _can't_, okay?" she hissed out in an angry whisper, even as she curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her horridly uncomfortable midsection. "My _true _parentage is that I'm the daughter of Dalia and William Granger. Simple bloody dentists! We knew each other, but Harry and I didn't even become friends until after Quirrel let in that mountain troll that attacked . . . ." Her voice trailed off. Why _had_ that mountain troll made a point of going into the lavatory, of all places? If it was so thick it couldn't have gotten into the castle on its own, why would it have occurred to the creature to go through a closed door when an open corridor was within its field of vision?

Could that have really all been some ploy? Could Albus Dumbledore have really—? A shock went across the back of her head as if she'd been struck. She shut her eyes tight and cried out.

Narcissa cast a worried look toward the wizards.

Scowling, Thorfinn stepped away from Lucius and came to stand before Hermione. He lowered to his knees, bringing himself eye-level with her, though he waited until she met his gaze before speaking. "I went through exactly what you're feeling now. Just before my charm broke, I fought against what I was starting to recall and for a moment just before it was all over, I really thought 'I'd rather curl up and die than bear anymore of this.' You're a smart girl. Try, just for a moment, try to consider that it _might_ be true."

She didn't want to feel sick anymore, she didn't want to hurt anymore, she was surprised her body wasn't giving out right now. But she couldn't. Even to try and entertain that this might help, she couldn't do it. The words wouldn't connect in her mind, no matter how she tried.

Pain lanced anew through her skull and her eyes welled up. "I can't!"

Appearing unexpectedly warm for a moment, he reached out, gently cupping her cheeks with his hands. "Sorry, maybe I don't didn't go through exactly this. Yours seems a lot worse than what happened to me, but . . . ." His gaze searched hers as he went on. "Your body rebelling this much against a thought? Does_ that_ feel normal to you?"

A shivering breath escaped her as she stared at him. No, none of this felt normal at all. Discarding a ridiculous notion was one thing, but truly trying to consider anything they were saying _could_ be true intensified the rippling in her gut and the agony pounding in her head.

"I don't know what's going on," she managed in a whisper that was barely a thread of sound. Her parents might not be her parents, a Death Eater who'd once seemed more than happy to kill her was acting gently with her, the Malfoys were being . . . helpful and even, dare she think it, nice? The world had gone mad! "None of this makes sense, but you're all . . . you're all talking about it like it does."

Thorfinn pursed his lips as he looked over her pained expression. Exhaling sharply through his nostrils, he dropped his hands and stood. Pivoting on his heel, he directed his attention to Lucius. "No more. We can't tell her _anything _else until the charms are broken."

Lucius sighed, shaking his head. "It might actually prove easier to break them if she has more reason to question—"

"No!" Thorfinn just about roared the word, he was at the end of his patience with this. They should've started working to dispel the charms the moment he brought her here. "Look at what it's doing to her! Your way might end up_ killing _her, Malfoy. We do this my way, now."

Lucius shook his head once more, seeming insistent. "Rowle, I really believe that—"

"I could give two shits what you believe!" Thorfinn's booming voice sent a shiver through Hermione. She was only vaguely aware of Narcissa leaning over her protectively as the wizard standing in defense before her went on. "I agreed to work with you because of the trust our fathers put in the Malfoys, but so help me, if she dies, _you_ die. I assume we understand each other?"

Hermione tried to block out what Thorfinn had just said. She didn't need anymore questions running around in her head and making her—as Thorfinn had suggested, himself—want to curl up and die.

"Father, he's right," Draco piped up, his voice weary but placating from where he'd fallen, slumped against the wall. His head tipped back, he was watching the scene with bleary, half-closed eyes. "I've seen how she looked through everything from being literally petrified to Aunt Bellatrix torturing her, shortly followed by believing she'd lost her best friend and an entire bloody war with him._ Never_ have I see her look like this."

"I don't get it," Hermione said, her voice nearly lost in the room, despite the momentary silence following Draco's observation. "Why's Rowle so upset?"

Narcissa glanced up at the aforementioned wizard—he'd turned his head to dart his gaze toward Hermione, his expression uncertain—before answering. "That's a discussion best left for when remembering stops being so dangerous for you."

Lucius breathed out an unhappy sound, even as he nodded. "So be it." He held out one hand, that ancient tome still clutched in the other. "Should be easier now that we have both her _and _the wand that cast the first charm."

Hermione looked down at herself as Thorfinn pivoted to face her, his own hand out toward her. In a slow, numb movement, she unwrapped her right arm from her torso. _Unbelievable._ She was still clutching Salazar Slytherin's wand!

She hadn't even noticed. A corner of her brain began grappling with the questions of how, when, and why a Hogwarts House founder could've cast a charm on her, and an instant shock of pain resounded through her skull in response.

Biting back a scream, she slapped the wand into Thorfinn's waiting fingers. "Take it!"

Draco pushed up to his feet as Thorfinn brought the wand to Lucius. He was nearly out of the room before his mother stopped him.

"Draco? Where are you off to?"

Letting out a short, disgruntled breath, he rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye. "Going to do something more useful than sitting on my arse?"

Narcissa shot him a quelling look.

Her son's shoulders drooped and he held up his hands. He had all he could do not to roll his eyes at his mother. They were a family of Dark wizards and witches who'd mistakenly supported someone who might've brought about the destruction of Wizarding Britain, and she was cross with him over _language?_ "I'm going to brew her a sleeping potion. She should get some rest while those two sort this out. Besides, there's a chance what we have to do to break the charms won't exactly tickle. It's probably better if she sleeps through it."

The blonde witch nodded and waved him off. Turning her attention to the men left in the room, she said, "Rowle, we should probably move her someplace more comfortable for the time being. Assist me, would you?"

Thorfinn was back beside the chaise in an instant. Stooping, he slid his arms beneath Hermione and lifted her as carefully as he could manage—he wasn't exactly a man known for delicate movements, after all.

Narcissa shot to her feet and led the way through the parlor. As she stepped into the corridor, she called out, "Draco? She'll be in the Hollyhock Room when that potion is ready."

Hermione grudgingly let her head droop to one side, her cheek resting against Thorfinn's chest as they made their way through the house and began climbing the long staircase. There she went, noticing that he wasn't _un_comfortable again. And the rocking motion of his gait beneath them was soothing.

Fighting to keep her eyes from closing, she asked, "The Hollyhock Room?"

Narcissa waved in a dismissive gesture with one hand, her other clutched into the length of her dressing gown and nightdress to keep the fragile material away from her footfalls on the staircase. "The very first lady of Malfoy Manor absolutely adored her gardens. Named all the guest rooms after the flowers that had been planted for her."

Since she'd stopped trying to fight with her own thoughts, the pain and the queasiness had subsided a bit, but the struggle with her body had left Hermione entirely drained, worn out.

Her head was spinning again, slowly though, and she felt an overtired sort of giddiness. "D' you have a favorite, Mrs. Malfoy?"

The elder witch glanced back at Hermione as they reached the top of the staircase and started along the corridor. "Room or flower?"

Hermione curled her fingers into the front of Thorfinn's robes simply to have something solid to hold onto, though she could not seem to make her hands grip any tighter. She thought perhaps she was asking—that she was talking at all—for the simple sake of keeping her mind occupied with anything aside from the thoughts that were bringing her such pain. "Both, I suppose."

Narcissa frowned thoughtfully as she stopped before a door and pushed it open. "I would have to say black baccara rose, and the Tulip Room. Don't take that personally, dear, the Hollyhock Room is simply the closest to the staircase. I presumed Mr. Rowle wouldn't want to be too far away from you when he returns to the parlor."

Watching through half-closed eyes as Narcissa pulled back the quilt and fluffed the pillow—oh, right, the Malfoys had been forced to give up their elves as part of their probation following the War—Hermione shook her head. Or, rather, she tried to, but the attempt really only resulted in sad little wobble against Thorfinn's chest. "Why is that?"

"Oi," Thorfinn, who'd been quiet all this time, cut in then. "I thought it was clear such discussions are best saved for when your own memories won't have you knocking at death's door?"

Why was she listening to any of this? Why was she reluctant to uncurl her fingers from Thorfinn's robes as he carefully settled her on the bed? Why couldn't she string together two thoughts that made sense out of all this?

He frowned just a bit, the expression pensive, as he slid his hands around hers and gingerly pried her fingers from the fabric. "Try to rest, that's all you need to do right now. Little Malfoy will be up in a moment with that potion, I'm sure."

As he straightened to his full, imposing, height beside the bed, words started tumbling from her lips, nearly seeming to form of their own accord. "The way you're acting . . . ." She swallowed hard and tried once more; speaking was becoming a chore again. "Are we—are we supposed to be something to one another?"

Chewing at his lower lip as he held her exhausted gaze, he let a moment slip by before he sighed. He didn't give any response, yet, instead pulling the quilt up over her before he answered. "Rest now. Talk later."

Hermione tried for a nod, but it came off as another pathetic little head wobble. She looked past him to where Narcissa waited in the doorway. "I don't know whether or not to thank you. Suppose that'll have to wait until later, too?" This was madness, but she was too drained to put up a fuss.

"As a matter of courtesy, it's important that you're at least considering it," Narcissa said, a smirk that Hermione thought the blonde witch'd probably picked up from her husband over the years curving one side of her mouth. "Hopefully, when you wake up, you'll know which is the appropriate response."

"I've got it!" Draco's voice filtered into the room from outside as he carried himself up the stairs in the best approximation of a jog he could manage.

His mother stepped aside to let him in, and he trudged over to the bedside. Feeling rather certain Rowle wasn't going to let him close enough to administer the potion, himself, Draco handed the vial off to the other wizard.

Thorfinn eyed him a moment as he accepted the dose. "Why are you so bloody tired? Yeah, I get it, it's the middle of the night, but your parents are fine and they're, well, old."

"I beg your pardon?"

Thorfinn and Draco both winced as they glanced toward the door. Narcissa was regarding Rowle with a severely arched brow as she crossed her arms. Hermione almost felt bad that she couldn't help snickering over the scene.

His brows pinched upward. "Well, you're the eldest people in the house, aren't you?"

Narcissa rolled her eyes and looked away, clicking her tongue in a noise that conveyed both anger and impatience quite eloquently.

"I haven't slept much since the War," Draco explained with a shake of his head, hoping to diffuse the situation before his mother drew her wand and hexed the lot of them. "This was the first night I actually felt like I was getting sleep and then my father comes and yanks me out of bed, throws this complicated and lengthy explanation at me as I'm still trying to wake up, and well, here we are."

Thorfinn studied the younger man's face for a few heartbeats before he arched an eyebrow. "Fair enough."

Turning back toward the bed, he saw Hermione watching them with a glazed look in her eyes. With how tired she must be from just the last hour, alone, he thought a potion to help her sleep shouldn't be necessary, but the youngest Malfoy was correct—breaking the charms was likely going to be rough on her, keeping her unconscious might be the only merciful way to go about any of it.

Huh, look at that. Thorfinn Rowle deciding in favor of mercy! Who'd have thought?

He perched on the edge of the bed and slid his free hand behind Hermione's neck, lifting her a bit. Though he half expected her to take in a mouthful and spit it in his face, she obediently drank down the vial's contents.

"You didn't fight me," he noted, a half-smile playing on his lips.

Now she did let her eyes close as she shrugged, a breathy little laugh escaping her. "Oh, please. You've had more than enough opportunities to torture and kill me tonight. If you wanted that, I'd already be dead."

Thorfinn nodded, laughing as he eased her back down against the pillow. "Good. Rest now. We'll see you in a bit.'

As he rose, she shot out a hand—the motion so fast, given her state, that it surprised everyone in the room—and caught his wrist. He looked at her fingers around his arm for a few heartbeats before lifting his gaze to hers.

She'd forced her eyes open once more, staring at his face as she asked, her lips barely moving for how tired she was, "You promise? Answers are coming?"

His massive shoulders sloped downward as he rested his hand over hers. "I promise."

Nodding, she let her hand fall away from him. She watched him as he followed Narcissa and Draco from the room, feeling the effects of the potion pull her toward sleep faster than her own well-earned weariness was.

As her eyelids drifted downward, the told herself one last time that this was madness. Tried to talk herself into thinking this was all her own imagining. Because that look he gave her just now as he turned to glance back at her one last time before he disappeared out the door—that look of concern in Thorfinn Rowle's blue eyes—couldn't be real.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

She was dreaming. For the first time in nearly a month and a half, her sleeping mind hadn't brought forth the image of—who she now knew to be—Salazar Slytherin, moving about in the darkness before coming to look over her. Yet, unlike those times, now she was perfectly aware she was dreaming, perfectly able to consider that this was the first time in all those long days since the War that her mind was conjuring something new.

It was that very same awareness that allowed her to realize . . . . The way he looked at her in those dreams—or memories, if Thorfinn Rowle's take on things was to be believed—she'd thought of in a particular way, hadn't she? Yes. She'd thought he was looking at her with a familiar, _fatherly_, affection.

_Oh, dear God._

Her skin iced over and her stomach roiled, only not with that horrid queasiness she'd experienced while she'd still been conscious. More of an unpleasant coil of apprehension, like when she just knew she was about to be in trouble over something and was waiting on tenterhooks for the consequences.

She sat down, only belatedly realizing the stone floor was cold and damp. It was, however, only a dream, so she supposed it didn't much matter if her bum got a bit wet. Turning her attention to her surroundings, she realized she knew exactly where she was. The mossy stone with the fanciful and intimidating carvings, the blue-green light that seemed to illuminate the otherwise dull cavern, the gentle sound of water rushing in the distance, and lapping around her as it pooled here and there across the pitted floor.

The Chamber of Secrets.

In the distance, she spied a girl. Not more than 7 years old, perhaps? Maybe a small for her age 8-year-old? Clad in those robes that so resembled some medieval princess' gown, and—in medieval princess fashion, as well—her . . . her wild, tumbling locks of golden-brown were held back, out of her face, by an intricate network of tiny braids atop her head. She could picture some poor, put upon handmaid spending hours just to manage that gargantuan task.

Or a house-elf managing it with a snap of her long, spindly fingers.

Hermione gave herself a shake, disliking how easily that second imagining had come to her. It suited, she thought, given that this was clearly a child of the Wizarding world, and in that time period, house-elves were likely even more common place than they were now.

She tried to avoid noting the familiarity of the girl's face. Of the large, chestnut-colored eyes, and hair that seemed to nearly have a life of its own, even artfully restrained as it currently was.

Tried to avoid that she'd seen that same face staring back at her from within the pages of her family photo albums, from vacations and events in her own childhood. Maybe just . . . the chill in her skin deepened, though she couldn't seem to move even to fold her arms around herself for some measure of warmth. Maybe just in the childhood she could _recall._

The child appeared to be waiting for something. She stood on her toes, peering down one of the massive stone passageways.

In that odd way of dreams, Hermione realized she wasn't simply observing the girl. She was seeing through her eyes. Feeling with her skin. Somehow observing the dream while _also_ being the center of it.

A bit like . . . like watching a memory in a pensieve, she realized with another twist of apprehension in her gut.

"There you are," a man's voice broke the silence of the Chamber and the girl spun in place.

"I have to say goodbye!" There was a defiance in the little girl's words that almost made Hermione laugh . . . or would have, if not that she knew the sound of her own voice, the sound of her own defiant tone, when she heard it.

"I would expect nothing less," he said, finally stepping into view. Salazar Slytherin.

There was a rumbling then, a deep dragging sound that poured through the cavern. Both Salazar and the child glanced toward the noise before averting their gazes.

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin—though she felt foolish for that, after all, this was the Chamber of Secrets, the bloody thing _lived _here—when the Basilisk exploded out into the main body of the Chamber. Even more foolish, for a moment she thought to avert her gaze as well. Dream _or_ memory, the creature's gaze couldn't do a bloody thing to her here.

Steeling her nerves, she kept her attention on the scene. The massive snake came to a halt before the pair and settled its chin on the ground beside the girl.

Hermione's heart was in her throat as the child lifted a hand, petting the beast in gentle strokes. After a moment, she moved closer, bracing her arms against it in as much of a hug as her small form could manage. The Basilisk, much to Hermione's disbelief, actually closed its eyes at the little girl's gesture.

"You promise?" she asked, turning her head to look at Salazar. "He will be here when I wake?"

Salazar knelt down before her, those green eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. "I do. I will be putting him into slumber, too." There was a tone in his voice then, a catch in his throat as he continued, "You will not wake alone, I promise. You will have your pet, and you will have your betrothed."

Her little face scrunched up in disgust. "What need have I of that awful boy? I do not even like him."

Shaking his head, Salazar answered, "I hope that when you wake, you will have the luxury of time that you might someday think differently."

Frowning, she returned her attention to her pet—Hermione thought for certain her mind just might break—and rested her forehead against the creature's scaly cheek. "I will miss you."

Hermione realized with a shock as the Basilisk pushed sideways, rubbing itself against the girl's outstretched form, exactly as a cat or a dog might do when returning affection, that the girl hadn't just spoken English. That was _Parseltongue!_

That was Parseltongue and there was no way she should be able to understand what that impossible, younger version of herself had just said! She remembered the swell of sickness in the pit of her stomach when she'd heard Harry speak it, the same swell that had passed through her when Ron had repeated Harry's nocturnal mumblings to access the Chamber during the Battle of Hogwarts.

_The same swell_, though not nearly so severe, as had been rocking through her since Thorfinn Rowle had brought her to Malfoy Manor.

Slipping his hand around the little girl's wrist, Salazar gently pried her from her pet's side. With his free hand, he held out his wand—the very same wand Hermione had clutched so desperately a short time ago—and muttered something under his breath. The weapon moved in a wide circle, and then he made a series of intricate maneuvers, as though drawing something in the air, before moving into the more common wand movements she knew.

In front of her eyes, the Basilisk grew sleepy. Curling itself up, just as one might imagine a snake of perfectly normal size would do when laying down to rest, the creature closed its eyes, its breathing evening out into short, shallow huffs.

After yet another moment, the creature stilled and a bronze sheen crept over its scales, until the metallic hue consumed it entirely.

A shuddering gasp escaped Hermione at the sight. She'd never witnessed anything like it. If she didn't know for a fact that the creature had survived sleeping a thousand years, that it had awakened during Tom Riddle's years at Hogwarts, she'd have thought it dead, certainly. It looked every bit a perfect bronze statue.

The little girl shook a bit as she stood there, her visibly watery gaze on her pet.

Turning her head to look at him, Salazar reached around her neck. God, Hermione'd been so stupid. Only then, as he unclasped the chain and removed it did she notice the necklace the girl had been wearing the entire time. Salazar Slytherin's locket. It hadn't been his, it had belonged to that child. She'd already known the reason it had been such a burden for them when they'd been Horcrux hunting was because of the vile bit of Voldemort's soul that had been crammed inside it, but she never considered that before his abuse of the item, it had only been a simple piece of heirloom jewelry.

Now that she thought on it, during the Horcrux Hunt, she'd been the one least affected by the locket's influence, hadn't she? Harry and Ron had each gotten angry, and dark, and surly when they'd had their turns wearing it, yet she hadn't really felt anything quite so much—as though she had some immunity to it. Why had it never occurred to her to question that before?

There he went sounding a bit sad again as he slipped the chain around his own neck and secured the clasp. "I know you love this locket, but that is why I need it. I am _afraid_. I am afraid that if I do not have something of yours to keep with me, I will not be able to go through with this."

"I understand." Sniffling, the little girl came very close to letting the mature and poised veneer she had been playing at come crumbling down as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. "I am afraid, too."

"You, my brave girl, will be fine. I have seen to it. Now we must go." He wrapped his arms around the child, lifting her easily onto his hip as he turned and started toward the Chamber's exit. "The Jarl and his son await us."

"The Jarl's son," she said with a sneer, her voice echoing back through the cavern to Hermione as they disappeared from sight. "I will not like him any more in a thousand years than I do today, Father."

A few jangling heartbeats passed before Hermione could force herself to stand. Hearing that girl, that tiny Dark Ages version of herself, actually call Salazar Slytherin _father_ had knocked the wind out of her. She knew it shouldn't surprise her—if the conversation she'd just overheard was to be believed, and was not merely some work of her imagination trying to cobble together a reasonable idea of how the things she'd heard before she'd fallen asleep could be at all possible—but the knowledge did absolutely nothing to stymy the feeling.

With a last glance at the bronzed Basilisk, she hurried to follow the pair out of the Chamber.

To her relief, and her surprise, she found they hadn't gone far. She'd never seen this section of the Chamber's tunnels before. Swallowing hard, she popped her head through the wide, arched entryway before actually setting foot inside.

An ornate altar dominated the center of the room, tipped at all four corners with equally ornate, spiraling candleholders. A perfect, color-dusted circle ringed the altar, symbols she did not recognize crammed between the circle's edge and the altar. It could not be a coincidence that those candlelit corners pointed precisely North, South, East, and West. With a start, she realized what she was looking at. This was how he'd done what he just had to the serpent—those intricate maneuvers had been an air-drawing of the same ritual markings around the altar.

This was _true_ ancient magick—a melding of the ritualistic magic even modern Wizarding kind seemed to think was the stuff of fairy tales, and magic as they recognized it today.

Hermione hadn't ever heard of something like this being down here. Perhaps that made sense, though. If Salazar was as intelligent as Lucius Malfoy claimed—and she knew he very probably was—then it stood to reason that hiding or even destroying this room after the magic he was about to perform was only another means of protecting the children.

She thought it more than an astute assumption that protection was his goal. It seemed the only reason behind all this that made sense.

Moving inside, she found her tiny self and Salazar in an alcove, nearly entirely hidden from view of the entryway. The walls of the alcove were lined with etchings of the very same symbols that filled the circle on the floor, and between the father and daughter and those carved walls stood an impossibly tall, imposing man wearing robes made of fur-trimmed leather. He had a long beard bound neatly by thick gold bands, and his light-brown hair was woven in a braided style that left the mass of his wavy locks loose around a set of massive shoulders.

Well, he certainly looked like a Jarl—Hermione had read a few obscure references to some Norse spell-casters who'd defected to the British Isles ahead of the Viking invasions, but she'd never imagined one of them might've been someone of so high-ranking a station. Then again, the young boy standing next to him, who looked like a small, blond copy of him, sans beard, she already recognized as Thorfinn before anyone even said his name. Perhaps, being an Ancient and Noble pure-blood line, it made sense that this was how the Rowle name came to eventually be included when Cantankerus Nott would pen the Sacred Twenty-Eight list centuries from now.

Tiny, medieval Hermione had her arms folded across her chest as she stubbornly refused to look at Thorfinn. In fact, she made a perfect show of pointedly looking everywhere but at him. Meanwhile, he at all of 10 years old, perhaps, watched her with a _perfectly _obvious scowl marring his features.

"He is ready," the Jarl said, his voice gravelly, as though he'd screamed himself hoarse only seconds before this conversation, yet Hermione had the sense that this was the way he naturally sounded.

He clapped his hands over his son's shoulders and, walking beside Salazar, moved toward the altar.

"Do not die in your sleep," little Hermione warned him, her words low and abrupt, as her gaze skittered up to meet his for a moment. "I will _never_ forgive you if you do."

Young Thorfinn looked genuinely startled before he managed to cover it over with another scowl. "Try not to be such a brat when we wake, or I will regret _not _dying in my sleep."

The Jarl nudged his son's shoulder.

Thorfinn's brows drew upward as he looked at his father. "I will not apologize. She kicked me in the bollocks just this morning!"

Completely forgetting the seriousness of the moment, she dropped her arms to her sides, her hands balled into little, trembling fists as she stomped her foot. "You called my Basilisk a _lizard_!"

"It is a lizard!"

Dreamer-Hermione covered her mouth with her hand as she watched that tiny her storm up to Thorfinn to glare directly up into his face. Bloody hell, even then he towered over her. "He. _He!_ And he is not a lizard, he is a serpent!"

The little Viking prince shrugged dismissively. "Same thing."

"It is _not_," she shrieked. She opened her mouth to rail at him some more, but he stopped her with a single action—the quick, unexpected dropping of a kiss on her forehead.

The girl froze, her eyes shooting wide as she simply stared at him.

His brows pinching together in a puzzled look over how effective his tactic had proved, he smirked. "You are not allowed to die in your sleep, either. I am to be your husband, whatever rules apply to me apply to you, too."

Snapped back to reality, she clenched her teeth, her eyes narrowing lethally. "Fine." She whirled on her heel, putting her back to him and folding her arms once more. "At least we will have a peaceful thousand years before we have to see one another again."

Hermione knew what they were doing. Her younger self—God, when had she become sold on the idea that this was truly her? That this had truly happened?—and Thorfinn were making themselves angry so they wouldn't have to acknowledge how scared they were. They knew they would wake in a world without their parents. Without their friends or anyone they knew besides one another.

In spite of herself, her throat clogged with tears and she curled her fist against her chin. There was something so sharp, so cutting in knowing how brave these children were being.

Thorfinn gave one last glance in her direction before following his father's urging to stand before the altar. Just as Salazar lifted his wand, the Jarl's hand on his shoulder stopped him from starting the spell.

The dark-haired wizard met the other man's eyes.

"You are certain? Your spell will spare them the illness?"

"Completely certain, Dagfinn. Godric's curse will _not _last a millennium. By the time our children wake, they will be free to pursue the legacy we have set before them without his treachery."

"Godric's curse?" Dreamer-Hermione echoed in a whisper. What on earth was he talking about?

Salazar went on, clearly obvious to the older witch's presence. "As I said, they will be suspended, entirely. The metal is special—breathable, but impervious. Nothing will be able to harm them." He looked toward his daughter, a sad smile curving his lips a moment. "When they wake, their memories will be locked as an added measure of protection and their caregivers will provide them new memories to guard them; if the world they wake to is truly safe for them, those locks will fall away and those new, false memories will give way to their real ones. He will not forget you."

Jarl Dagfinn Rowle seemed set at ease by Salazar's assurance. Nodding, he knelt before Thorfinn. She couldn't understand whatever words were exchanged as she thought perhaps they were speaking Old Norse, but she believed she recognized the gist of their discussion from the tones they used, and a few words that weren't wholly dissimilar to modern English. There was something about pride in there, and bravery. And guarding _his lady_.

She figured maybe it was good little Hermione didn't appear to understand them, either, because she likely would've taken another opportunity for a row with the boy. Maybe arguing was their comfort zone?

Dagfinn climbed to his feet and stepped back from his son. Thorfinn drew a deep breath and let it out slow before he nodded at Salazar and closed his eyes. Hermione tried not to watch her younger self as Salazar lifted his wand once more and began reciting his bronze-sleep spell in a low, muttering voice, making it impossible for her to catch the words.

Thorfinn's eyes had trailed in the girl's direction as his lids drooped. Though he didn't make sleepy movements as the Basilisk had, he appeared to nod off standing up. Unable to help herself, she did look to the girl, then, too. Young Hermione was fidgeting in place, her fingers toying restlessly with the elbows of her sleeves as she held her arms tightly crossed. Her lower lip was poked outward and her eyes were wide as she kept them fixed on the floor.

She didn't want to watch the bronze creeping over Thorfinn's skin and sealing him whole, as it had her pet. Older Hermione wasn't sure she blamed her.

In fact, she wasn't certain she could watch anymore. Yet, as the bronze held, she could not seem to tear her gaze from the way the Jarl bowed his head, speaking in hushed tones to his frozen son.

"Your family knows what to do. Keep him, guard him. Simple."

The Jarl's voice tumbled out low and a bit hollow. "The Rowle line is bound by word and by blood. They will do no less. What of your daughter?"

"Plans have been made. As my heir, she is in more danger than Thorfinn." Salazar looked at her once more. "Sabina?"

Hermione's brows shot up as she mouthed the name, _Sabina? _"Do I look like a bloody 'Sabina' to you?"

The girl turned to meet her father's gaze. Sabina—ugh, of _all _names, why something like Sabina? Sabina Slytherin? What was _with _this era and alliterative names?!—was ashen as her attention swept over Thorfinn's still, metallic form. Her brown eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled.

"I . . . . Father, please do not make me do this."

Hermione folded her arms around herself and clapped a hand over her mouth. The utter fear in the girl's voice was heart wrenching. The minute wavering of her bravery and maturity were painful to watch.

His face closed in on itself as he walked over, lowering to his knees before her. Resting gentle hands over her tiny shoulders, he heaved a weighted sigh. "There are enemies everywhere, my fierce future queen. If we are to outwit them, that means you must out_last _them."

"But—"

"Shh," Salazar murmured the sound, that caring light coming into his eyes again. "That man unleashed a sickness unlike any we have ever seen just to keep me from my goal. I cannot risk that he will stop there. I cannot risk that he would harm you to get to me. The illness took your mother, I will _not_ let it have you. Now." He lifted his chin in a defiant look, even as he held her gaze. "What are you going to do?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Sabina mirrored his expression and nodded, her voice wavering a little as she said, "Outwit them by outlasting them."

"Good. Now, will you stand, or will you be at rest?"

Her attention once more shot to Thorfinn, standing there, frozen in bronze for the next thousand years. She wasn't certain she could do that. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped up to the altar. "At rest."

Nodding, he gestured toward the Jarl. "Dagfinn, kindly assist my daughter, if you would."

Without a word, the Viking scooped up the child as if she weighed nothing—and to him, she probably seemed to weigh less than nothing—and seated her on upon the stone surface. While she lay herself back, Sabina's eyes followed her father as he moved around the circle, ensuring nothing had been smudged or damaged following Thorfinn's suspension.

He looked up, noticing his daughter's still-worried gaze on him. His shoulders sloping, he drew closer to her. Hermione couldn't help but notice that in the otherwise dark chamber, the candlelight seemed to catch and reflect in his eyes, making the green glow. Just like in her dream.

He perched on the side of the altar, as though it were a bed. Just like in her dream, he reached out, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that kind look as he brushed a few wayward strands behind her ear. "I would tear the world asunder to keep you safe. Sleep now."

Hermione bit hard into her bottom lip as she watched Salazar step back and aim his wand at his daughter. Her throat constricted and her heart hammered so hard inside her chest it actually hurt as Sabina grew sleepy. Her breath seemed trapped in her lungs as that impervious, breathable metal welled over her. Sealing and protecting her.

_For a thousand years_, Hermione thought, swallowing hard.

She stepped toward the bronze girl—she hadn't gotten to hear anything about who was to guard and keep _her_—when she felt a stabbing in the back of her skull. Stumbling at the unexpected pain, she fell to one knee.

By the time Hermione struggled back to her feet, she found herself in her Muggle parents' home. Looking about in confusion, she saw Dumbledore conversing with her parents. But . . . the image of younger self, seated so patiently on the living room sofa, a huge book open in her lap, who was not yet attending Hogwarts? She didn't remember this. Why didn't she remember it?

She watched as Dumbledore sat down near the young her. Her parents looked on grudgingly as the wizard smiled, his eyes full of sympathy, even as he touched the tip of his wand to her temple.

Another shock of pain and she found herself in the Hogwarts library. The Basilisk had come up behind her. As it had done in the Chamber a thousand years ago, it had tried to lean into her, apparently expecting an embrace. But she hadn't known, she didn't remember, and the proximity terrified her. She accidentally met the creature's gaze in the sliver of mirror she held. Another pain and she was in the school hospital wing, her petrification cured. There, again, was Albus Dumbledore with that sad, sympathetic smile as he pressed his wand to her temple.

A sick churning in her stomach and she was on the floor of Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix Lestrange torturing her and screaming in her face. She could see it now, the Malfoys looked stricken. Afraid to step in but horrified at that scene. Had Bellatrix figured it out, too?

Had she been so ferocious because she thought someone raised among Muggles might dethrone her precious Dark Lord? Had she worried that if Voldemort had learned the truth, he might want _Sabina Slytherin_ by his side and have even less use for Bellatrix's simpering, mad-eyed devotion than he'd already had? Or had she simply been hoping to torture the younger witch to death, so those question would never arise, never need to be answered?

In their escape that had cost sweet Dobby his life, she noticed something she hadn't seen before. The Malfoys had put up a good show during the fight, but when the Golden Trio was being pulled away from Malfoy Manor, they lowered their wands sooner than they should've if they were truly trying to stop their quarry from fleeing.

A crunching mix of pain and nausea swept through her and she tumbled onto the battlefield that Hogwarts had become. Voldemort was falling. Somewhere nearby a scream rent the air unexpectedly, somehow different from those of the Dark Lord's other surviving followers. This was not a scream of anger or disappointment, no. This was agony.

Looking about, she saw Thorfinn Rowle. Clutching at his head with both hands, he sank to his knees. After several heartbeats of appearing as though he was fighting with himself, he lifted his head and cast his attention around the battlefield in a daze.

She noticed his gaze fell on her—not _her_, but the version of her that fought the last battle of the Second Wizarding War that day. His blue eyes narrowed as he shook his head. She saw as he mouthed that dreaded name, _Sabina?_ But that version of her . . . she'd only shaken her head to get her bearings. Yes, she remembered now. There had been a momentary flash of pain and that swell of sickness when Voldemort had fallen, that same moment that she felt eyes on her.

But the eyes she felt hadn't been Thorfinn's. They'd been the whispered memory of her father, edging around her subconscious, seeking a way through all those locks Dumbledore had fortified.

She had shaken her head and looked about, but that was it. She did not react as he had. She didn't even seem to recognize him. Even older, she should've recognized him as easily as he'd recognized her.

Hermione watched as he gritted his teeth, taking note of the change happening around them—the Light coming for his brethren and those who'd aligned with them. He flicked his attention toward her one more time before he Apparated.

There was a series of quick little glimpses, then, of her throughout the last seven years, walking through Hogwarts. Of all her travels and adventures in the castle, she'd never gone near Ravenclaw Tower. Something . . . every time she took a path that might put her near it, she diverted her steps, changed to a different staircase or another corridor. She'd never even noticed she'd done that.

One final agony tore through her and she was back in her Muggle parents' home. In the basement, her bronze form lay on a soft cushion of velvet, like an antique sculpture on display at a museum. Was that how they'd been passed down through the generations? Bronze children handled like beloved family heirlooms?

The metallic sheen melted away from her skin as Dahlia and William Granger watched over her. "I don't know," William said in a hushed voice. "I think this was supposed to happen sooner, but there was that ridiculous You-Know-Who, whatever he called himself."

"Hmm." Dahlia nodded, settling beside the girl as she started breathing, slow and deep. "I suppose that makes sense. From everything I heard about him, he'd have killed the children just so he could go on being the 'heir of Slytherin.'"

William spat on the ground at mention. "That man was not worthy of calling himself anything 'of Slytherin.'"

"Shh, she's waking up." Dahlia turned her full attention on Sabina as the child opened her eyes. That chestnut-brown gaze darted about, wide and confused. "Do you remember anything?"

Sabina shook her head, looking on the verge of tears.

Dahlia's shoulders drooped as she exchanged a look with her husband. Hermione knew what this meant—Salazar had said it himself. The magic must've been aware of the Horcruxes, aware Voldemort was not truly gone. She and Thorfinn had still be in danger. Of course, now it made sense. He'd been passed along through his family line, Thorfinn was probably a common name among the Rowles, no need to change for the sake of protecting his locked memories. The Basilisk had awakened at the proximity of one of Salazar's bloodline who'd spoken Parseltongue, just as Thorfinn had said.

It must've thought Riddle was a link to her. Oh, dear Lord! She was actually starting to feel bad for the Basilisk.

That still begged the question of how Hermione—or Sabina—had come to be in the possession of a Muggle family? And how on earth did this Muggle family, who pretended to be so surprised when she received her Hogwarts letter, know so much about her situation?

"Your name is Hermione," Dahlia said, smiling even as William echoed the name in a questioning whisper. "We are your parents. Here." She placed a book in the child's hands.

Hermione wanted to yell at Sabina not to open the bloody thing, but this was her and a book! Of course she was going to open it!

When the girl eased back the cover, a glittering flash erupted from the pages. There and then gone in a blink, as if it had only been the work of her imagination. But Hermione knew what that was. She could recall the enchantment now. It had been a dizzying transfer of information, a preset story to replace the memories lost to her. A story meant to set her place in the current world with these people who claimed to be her parents. An enchantment that, each time she looked at old family photo albums, would fill her head with images of her younger days spent in a Muggle life.

Closing the cover, the girl looked up at Dahlia. "Mummy, I'm sleepy. Can I go to bed, now?"

To the woman's credit, Dahlia actually looked a bit sad for a moment as she nodded. "Of course, Hermione dear. Let's get you washed up and into your pyjamas."

* * *

"Goddammit, hold still!"

Hermione awoke screaming. She was aware that she was thrashing. No longer on the bed, her limbs were striking cold, hard stone. There was a sense of someone attempting to hold her. Snapping open her eyes, she saw Thorfinn over her, trying to pin her down.

"You're going to break a bloody limb on the altar at this rate," he warned in a hissing breath. She hadn't put up this much of a fight before, or that whole cozy dining room scene never would've happened, but then she figured she wasn't in as much agony at that time as she must've been as her memories had warred with each other.

"Altar?" she echoed, relaxing in his arms as she looked down. It was the same one on which Salazar had initially cast the spells. "Oh, that." Now where the hell had they been hiding this?

"It worked?" he asked, moving his head to catch her gaze.

"I bloody hell hope it worked," Lucius said in an exhausted tumble of sound as he staggered over to the pair and handed off her father's wand to her. "Because I don't believe I have it in me to do that second time."

Thorfinn pursed his lips, shaking his head as he turned his attention back to Hermione. "You remember?"

She looked from him to the snakewood wand in her hand, and back. Part of her wanted to rebel. All of this flew right in the face of everything she'd believed since entering Hogwarts. She was tempted to question the validity of what she 'remembered', but she _knew_. Memory charms were painless, only the breaking of them could produce the anguish she'd been forced to endure. She dreaded to think how bad it would've been if she'd been conscious. "The childhood is still a little fuzzy, but yes. I remember what . . . I remember what was done to to me. Dumbledore cast a charm to reinforce the lock on my memories every time something happened that he thought might compromise the original one my father placed."

"No wonder you were such a mess," Draco said around a yawn.

"I've questions, still, but I'm so tired," she said, ignoring the youngest Malfoy's quip. "But I have one thing I need to know before I can sleep."

Thorfinn nodded, already lifting her from the altar to carry her back to her borrowed bed in the Hollyhocks Room. "I'll answer if I can."

"Our fathers," she started, licking her parched lips before going on. "They talked about Godric's curse and the legacy set before us? What was that about?"

He made a face as he brought her up to the first floor from the cellar and started toward the main staircase. "You father had a plan. He wanted to organize Wizarding Britain, have it ruled as a monarchy, since the Wizard Council was a horrific mess that seemed more focused on having positions of power than actually doing anything useful for their country's people. Godric Gryffindor was so dead-set against it, so convinced your father would not see reason if he argued for a different plan, he created a sickness meant to strike at anyone from Salazar's or your mother's lines who might try to fulfill his wish. You were the only person to have both their blood, the threat of it should've began and ended with you. But without you there, the curse became a true illness, and did what all illnesses do. It branched beyond its intended victims or purpose and simply ended up a disease with no rhyme or reason."

Hermione swallowed hard, afraid to ask the next, natural question. "He created a disease with magic? Even if it might hurt a _child_?" It didn't seem real. Godric Gryffindor had always been looked at by Wizarding Britain as some moral pillar, a paragon of just ideals and fairness. Could all of that been a facade? No, not_ all_ of it. She'd always thought there was more to the story of Godric and Salazar's bitter historic rivalry—after all, the founders had been noted as having been _friends_ when they'd joined together to create the school—but something like this?

She still believed Godric had been that proverbial knight in shining armor at some point, and now knew that it was _at some point_ her father had become the bitter, hateful man in the history texts, but just as her father had not always been so hateful, it was likely, too, that Godric had not always been the shining knight.

Thorfinn frowned, his eyes closing tight for a moment. "I don't think he much had the safety or well-being of anyone in mind, Hermione. It was a time before the illness was named, or even had a known list of symptoms, but make no mistake. He _created_ Dragon Pox_."_

She felt sickened all over again at this revelation. "Salazar said the illness took my mother."

"She was the foremost advocate of your father's plan. For all anyone really knows, she was probably Godric's Patient Zero, as Muggles would say."

"That man killed my mother," she whispered, feeling her eyes well up, despite that she did not yet recall the woman, herself.

"Your mother . . . your mother suffered a loss. Due to the timing, it was considered that her illness was connected with the heartbreak from that, and no one would believe Godric could stop so low, and it's strange to say, but I _do_ think he regretted his action, that he probably even blamed your father for what _he_ did, but it left the true cause behind her illness to be written off for all time as 'unknown.'"

Hermione shivered, aware of a thousand thoughts, a thousand reactions, ready to come screaming through her head. "How can no one know this?"

He frowned deeply. "What? The matter of pure-bloods versus Muggle-borns and who of them is 'more worthy of magic' has been an explosive topic ever since the first Squib line was revived through the unexpected birth of a witch or wizard. You think anyone was going to let anything get out that tarnished Godric Gryffindor's glorious reputation? Anything that made the whole of Slytherin House not 'bad'?" he said, confirming her suspicions from only a few seconds ago.

"And the best way to discredit someone to a mass populace is to make only their most deplorable, inhuman traits known," she mumbled the words, hating that she could see the logic in it.

Thorfinn breathed out a low, sympathetic sound, but otherwise remained silent.

Trying to put the entire mess out of her mind for the time being as he climbed the main staircase toward the guest rooms, she said, "Thank you for not calling me Sabina."

He snickered. "I figured you're used to Hermione, no point confusing things."

"Oh, and—" She lifted a hand, smacking him square in the center of his forehead.

"Oi! What was that for?"

"That's for shutting me up with a kiss."

Thorfinn barked out a laugh. "Didn't seem to mind so much at the time,_ Sabina_."

"_Oi_," she ground out the word from between clenched teeth, but after moment, couldn't seem to stop a half-smile from curving her lips. This was all so much to take in.

She was too tired for much of anything, now. She had some answers; she had no real choice but to wait until after she'd gotten a bit of _real_ sleep to learn more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Given last chapter's revelations, the next few chapters are (obviously) going to be Hermione dealing with all she's just learned as she struggles to make sense of her own feelings, and takes in new information. I mention this because there will be moments of seeming to rehash points she's already said/thought, moments of this all seeming like it's the furthest thing from her mind, and moments when she seems to be fussing over things that are small/petty in comparison to the larger picture. This is intentional for the sake of staying realistic to how people process information of this magnitude.**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"How are you holding up after last night?"

It took Hermione a moment to realize the question was directed at her. Lifting her gaze from the truly delightful looking brunch plate set before her—Narcissa Malfoy might not have house elves, but she had managed to locate a Squib housekeeper who was a wonderful cook and, as some Squibs did, adored working for pure-bloods when she could, like Filch, having some strange sense that pure-bloods being in charge should be the natural order of the Wizarding world—she looked about the table. In a strange way, she was grateful said housekeeper only worked from just after sunrise until after she cleaned up from dinner and dessert and then retired to her own home. Hermione couldn't have imagined what even a Squib would make of last night's events.

When she awoke a short while ago in the guest room, Hermione noticed it was the first time since the War that she felt she'd actually _rested_. As she'd sat up, she realized her hand had been curled around the snakewood wand the entire time as she slept. Perhaps it had brought her comfort, now that she knew some of the truth. Now that she had seen, firsthand, enough to question the history she'd believed all these years.

This wand didn't feel like her old wand. No. This was different. Unique . . . well, she supposed all wands were meant to be unique, but this one? When she'd held it last night before her memories had surfaced, it had merely felt the same as picking up another wizard or witch's weapon—a quiet energy thrumming through it, sure, but that was it. Her original wand had felt a bit like that, only a little more potent. Like she was stronger, her magical potential bolstered just for having it in her hand. But the snakewood wand? Now as she turned it over in her grasp, examining it with her gaze, it felt _alive_.

She understood without question in that very moment that_ this_ was why Thorfinn had broken her old wand. There would be no connecting to the weapon her father had left for her while her old wand still held that connection for her. Of course, he could've been a little less of a prick about it, but she was beginning to suspect _that _part was just Thorfinn.

Aiming the wand at an ornate glass tissue box on the vanity table across the room, she defaulted to her very first successfully cast spell—the one over which Ron had given her such grief back during their first year, when she'd tried to help him cast it _correctly_. "Wingardium Leviosa," she said in a mere breath of sound, moving her weapon in the practiced swish-and-flick maneuver.

She didn't feel like anything was happening at all. Yet, the box lifted as easily as it should if this was truly intended to be her wand. It wasn't that nothing was happening, she could obviously_ see_ the spell was working. No. Hermione set the box back down and let her hand fall into her lap. It was that the magic from the wand worked so naturally with the magic inside her, there was hardly any effort at all behind it.

Strangely, she trusted that no danger would come to her here. Despite this, she took the wand with her as she climbed out of bed. Of course, this was also when she realized she was still in her nightclothes. A short cotton shirt and thread bare flannel bottoms . . . . Not the most shameful thing she could've been caught in, but still, it did make her feel _wildly _under dressed for her surroundings.

As for how she felt in the wake of last night's revelations, however?

The jury was still out on that. She supposed she still needed time for everything to sink in, and to get more information about her circumstances, before she could really decide her feelings on any of it. But she was rather sure that she was headed for a complete, and quite messy, meltdown, she simply wasn't 'there,' yet. Maybe her current nearly-at-ease state was a form of shock?

Aware it was rather far into the morning—possibly already the afternoon, given how late into the night everything had gone on—she'd readied herself to face an unknown day ahead as best she could and made her way downstairs.

She'd found Thorfinn sitting at the foot of the main staircase. His head tipped to one side, he leaned against the banister. He'd nodded off, hadn't he?

A smirk curving her lips nearly before she even realized she was making the expression, she crept down the last few steps to stand behind him. Wincing, she reached out, tapping the tip of her wand to the nape of his neck.

The man jumped up and forward, whirling on his heel to face the offending object. What she found interesting was that though her trick had triggered his instinctive combat reflexes, he'd not drawn his wand, he'd lifted his fist.

His arm hovering in the air as he saw her, his broad shoulders slumped. He buried his face against his palms a moment before speaking. "A thousand years and you're _still _such a brat."

Hermione folded her lips on a grin as she clasped her hand around the wrist of her wand-arm behind her back and bounced in place. "Did I do that sort of thing often when we were children?"

"All. The. Time," he said, his blue eyes narrowing.

"Then it's a wonder you tried so hard to get my memories back, hmm?" Oh, she was feeling a touch feistier and more playful than she recalled being just last night. Like she was . . . freer, somehow, lighter.

"I recall asking you not to be a brat when the spell wore off."

Her brow furrowed as she moved down the steps. On level ground with him now, she peered up into his face. Had their height difference remained static as they'd grown up? It seemed so. A thousand years ago, she'd be considered a tall woman, but he effortlessly and naturally towered over her. Bloody unfair rubbish. "Does that mean you're regretting not dying in your sleep?"

Thorfinn Rowle tried to maintain that unhappy expression, but a half-smile appeared. "You really _do_ remember now."

She shrugged, marveling over how what felt odd about being so informal and comfortable with him was that it _didn't_ feel odd. "It's still the same as after the charms broke. I recall the night we were put into the bronze, but I can't remember anything further back than that."

He nodded. "That part might take some time, but it will happen, and it will happen on its own, now that the magic barring the memories has been stripped away. C'mon, they're waiting for us in the dining room."

Hermione fell into step beside him as they moved through the house. There were so many things she should be asking right now, but as they crossed the floor and the delicious scents of baked food and rich coffee filled the air, her thoughts fled.

Yet, just as they reached the gold-knobbed double doors, she stopped, not even thinking of the gesture as she placed a hand on his arm. The way he'd acted so protectively, threatening Lucius like that last night . . . .

"What?"

"We were really betrothed? Like, you and me? Supposed to be . . . married?" She did vividly recall little Thorfinn saying that he was to be her husband, and so whatever rules applied to him applied to her—she supposed that made sense given his background. The Vikings'd had more equality than most other European cultures of the day. Goose and gander, and all that.

He nodded, seeming utterly unfazed by the notion. "If you think about it, had we stayed where we came from, we'd already be married." He paused a moment, a thoughtful look gracing his features as he stroked the dark-gold stubble dusting his jaw. "Probably already have our firstborn, and more than likely be working on making our second by the ages we are now."

Hermione's eyes shot wide. "How can you speak of this so casually?"

Those massive shoulders—good God, could she stop noticing how nicely built the man was for five bloody minutes?—rose in a shrug. "I would think because I remember it all?"

"Is that really why?" She hated that she was honestly curious about his thinking.

His gaze searched her face and his brows drew upward. "You and I were promised to each other on your fifth birthday. We spent three and a half years with the notion that _we _were one another's future. So, yeah, I think that's probably what it is." He tipped his head to one side, that half-smile broadening a little. "Unless you think I should have some other reason for being able to easily imagine what the wedding night might be like."

The witch felt warmth bloom in her cheeks as she stared up at him. Wedding night? Oh, he _was_ mad after all!

"You hear me now, Thorfinn Rowle, I've no intention, or desire, to marry you."

Again with that narrow-eyed look, he answered, "Let's be clear on this, Sabina Slytherin—" He ignored the way she cringed and made a rumbling sound of disgust in the back of her throat—"wondering what shagging you might be like is worlds away from actually _wanting _to marry you."

"So then, we're in agreement? We don't want to go through with that stupid ancient betrothal?"

He pulled himself to stand taller, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't think anyone in the history of time has wanted to marry someone _less_ than I want to marry you. Good enough?"

She didn't know if it was her pride bristling at his tone, or if her feelings were actually hurt by his presumptuousness. As if she'd _care _that a . . . a brutish prick like him wouldn't want to marry her! Mirroring his stance—with the clear exception that she still held her wand, but then it was hardly as though the too-loose pockets of her flannel bottoms were ideal for holding the weapon, now was it?—she scowled up at him. "Oh, no. See, that's not possible, because I want to marry you _way_ less than you want to marry me."

Thorfinn barked out a mirthless laugh. "I don't bloody think so. If there's one of us who wants to not make good on our fathers' promise, it's me, _Sabina_!"

"There you go again! Don't call me that. I hate that name!"

"Really? You want me to stop?"

Oh, when had they devolved into pointless bickering? It was nonsense! As if they were arguing for the sheer sake of arguing.

Even with that realization in mind, it appeared she was simply unable to help herself. His very presence seemed to goad her into snapping back at him. "I did just say that, didn't I?"

"Okay, how about we make a deal." He dropped his arms to his sides, propping his fists on his hips. "I'll stop calling you Sabina if you stop being a brat. _Sabina_." He hissed the name like a curse.

"Ooh!" She grimaced before puffing out her cheeks in an angry exhalation. "I am _not_ being a brat!"

"Agree to disagree? Sabina."

"Are you two quite finished?"

They both turned startled gazes on the double doors. When had they opened? How long had Lucius Malfoy been standing there, taking in the way they bickered like a couple of children?

The pair exchanged a wincing glance, perfectly aware how horribly immature they were both being.

"Now, as entertaining as this has been to watch, your meals are getting cold." Appearing the perfect host, Lucius sidestepped and swept his arms back toward dining room table.

Hermione cast an uncertain sidelong look at Thorfinn. "Were we like this when we were little?"

Thorfinn returned her look, nodding. "Oh, yeah."

Settling at the table, she could feel the gazes of the Malfoys darting between her and Thorfinn as she accepted coffee from the housekeeper and dug into the food waiting for her. She hadn't realized it before, but she was famished—it was more than clear that last night's ordeal had taken a lot out of her.

As she got about half-way through her plate, that was when Narcissa inquired with regard to how she was faring.

Offering the other witch a small, tight-lipped grin, Hermione shrugged. "I honestly have no idea how to feel about any of this. I had a life stolen from me, but it was done by someone who—while he _undoubtedly_ had his own agenda, because it seemed like he always did—presumably assumed it was also 'for my own good.' I don't know if I should be heartbroken, or grateful, or angry, maybe all of them?"

"I don't believe any of those things would be an incorrect response," the blonde said as she paused to lift her tea cup for a dainty sip. "Your life would be different had you known, certainly. It's only natural to wonder if you actually are better for not having known. Your own friend, Mr. Potter, might not have grown into the fate he claimed had he been raised knowing who he was. You're the closest thing our corner of the magical world has to a princess. I suspect you'd be an entirely different person had you been raised with the pure-bloods of Wizarding Britain treating you like the nobility you are."

Hermione set down her fork carefully to spare herself from letting the utensil slip out of her fingers and clatter noisily against her plate. Narcissa Malfoy's words had been intended as a gentle observation. It wasn't the elder witch's fault her statement had dropped Hermione's heart into her stomach. A pure-blood princess? Her? Yes, just what every once literally tortured Muggle-born wants to learn she was all along.

Oblivious to her moment of discomfort, Lucius piped up. "Surely, you must have dozens of questions?"

Draco snickered at his father's inquiry. "Her? She's Hermione Granger. However many questions you think it'd be logical for someone to have, double it, and then add twenty."

Thorfinn chuckled as Lucius and Narcissa both cast their son a quelling look. Hermione, for her part, looked around the table and shrugged. "Well, he's not wrong," she said, perfectly aware of her often too-inquisitive nature.

She realized something as she looked around at the family of pale-haired pure-bloods seated across from her and Thorfinn. There were being . . . not the terrible people she recalled them as, and they had been quite terrible at times, but it seemed rational to her that their almost warm demeanor toward her now should seem forced, or at least unnatural. But it didn't. It merely felt like a side to them she'd not been permitted to see before.

It reminded her of the side of Salazar Slytherin she'd experienced in her own memories. Not the cold, ruthless, traditionalist who cared for nothing so much as blood purity and whom the bulk of the House named for him seemed to idolize. But that hard, icy old man in the portraits was who they truly thought of, and they didn't even know there was a difference between them. In a way, she'd been right when she'd thought the man from her dream and the one told of in the history texts could not be one and the same.

He'd lost his wife to a terrible disease that had, at that time, not yet been named—that still had no cure—and he'd sacrificed his daughter to time, itself, in order to save her. He could _not_ be the same man she recalled after that.

Yes, it seemed like that. They were following only that second, hateful, twisted up version of Salazar Slytherin—at least those like Tom Riddle had been. Was it possible the Malfoys somehow knew there had been a different version of him altogether before he'd lost such treasured pieces of his heart?

In the silence that followed, her throat closed and she blinked back tears at the idea. So much was so clear to her now.

A hand closing over hers snapped her back to her senses and she looked up to see Thorfinn watching her. Lord help her! There he went appearing concerned, again. Like last night before her memories had been unlocked.

'You're crying."

"No I'm not."

His brows shot up as he gave a sideways nod. "Well, then you might want to have a chat with your face, because it's saying otherwise."

Forcing a smile, she dabbed her mouth with her napkin and set it down beside her plate. Rising from the table, she almost jumped at all three men also rising. God, she hadn't been expecting manners from them!

"I um, I do have a lot of questions, but I also realize I'm still in my nightclothes. I think I'd like to pop home and freshen up before we go any further with this."

"Perfectly understandable," Narcissa said with a nod. "See you in a bit then, dear."

As she started out of the dining room, she heard footfalls behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she met Thorfinn's gaze.

"Oh." He stopped as well, looking perfectly awkward as he cast a glance about. "_Should_ I go with you?"

For a moment, she only gaped at him. It was still a lot to process, and him being thoughtful on top of everything else seemed in danger of making the whole thing almost too much for her bear. But then she didn't particularly want to be alone just now, either.

She couldn't even think on what her friends' responses would be to this mess when they returned from their trip abroad. That was more than definitely a meltdown of its own waiting to happen. But that wasn't for two months. Plenty of time to sort things privately before she had to face them and potentially destroy their image of her forever because of genetics that didn't change a bloody thing about how she felt toward them, or everything she'd done for them over the past seven years!

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slow, trying to release her suddenly frenzied stream of thought with the air in her lungs. "Sure."

Turning on her heel, she stepped through the doors. As he joined her just outside the dining room, they heard both Narcissa and Lucius hiss words of admonishment at their son. Neither Hermione nor Thorfinn had heard what he'd said, but his response to being scolded told the pair everything they needed to know.

"Look, all I'm saying is," his voice filtered through the doors, "if they're not back for a while, I think it's _fairly_ obvious what would be keeping them."

Hermione bit hard into her bottom lip, her wand gripped tight as she pivoted on her heel.

Thorfinn's hand closed over her shoulder and he whirled her right back around. "Just keep walking," he said, nudging her to fall into step beside him.

"Was this an unusual thing?" she asked as they moved through the house toward the entryway. "You know? _You_ stopping _me_ from fighting rather than the other way around?"

His brows pinched together as he exhaled loudly, his cheeks puffing out. "You've got _so_ much to remember, still."


	6. Chapter 6

**For those who've also been keeping up with the sudden burst of crazy-fast updates on _Revenir_, I want to assure you, that will in no way compromise the weekly update schedule for _Daughter of Slytherin_.**

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**Chapter Six**

She wasn't entirely sure how she accomplished it, but somehow Hermione managed to hold herself together as they exited Malfoy Manor, as they Apparated back to her Muggle home—her with the use of her father's wand, and Thorfinn finally having drawn his own from within the folds of his cloak—and she shut herself up in the bathroom.

Even as she stood beneath the steady spray of the shower and scrubbed at her hair and body with pleasantly scented soaps and hair care products, she was only able to turn over in her head everything she'd recalled with a sort of dazed numbness. Yes, she supposed, this was definitely a form of shock.

Wrapping her wet hair in a towel and tightly belting her coziest thick cotton bathrobe around herself—she wanted to be relaxed and in comfort before she dressed and headed back to Malfoy Manor for whatever answers the Most Noble and Ancient Houses of Black and Malfoy might have for her—she shoved her feet in her fuzzy slippers and started down the staircase. It didn't even occur to her to be mindful of the floppy bunny ears on her comfy footwear until Thorfinn reacted to the spectacle.

She found him in the kitchen, not that she was very surprised, with his head in the refrigerator. Folding her arms under her breasts, she leaned against the doorframe. How odd that their conversation that had occurred in this very room only late last night felt as though it had taken place in another life time.

Huh. She supposed that, in a sense, it_ had_.

"We_ literally_ just came from eating brunch," she said, wondering when she had put on the coffee she smelled in the air—obviously that had to be her doing, as Thorfinn Rowle was more likely to destroy a Muggle coffeemaker trying to understand how it functioned than he was to figure out the mechanics of it without instruction. She by no means assumed he was an idiot; she simply didn't trust him around items with delicate pieces or dainty buttons that could crack if pressed a bit too enthusiastically. Her mind must be more muddled than she realized today if she had completely glossed over setting up the pot that was currently brewing, not that she imagined anyone in the world would blame her for being a bit out of sorts just now.

"Yes, well, you told me to make myself comfortable, and food makes me _very_ comfortable." He slapped a hand against the side of the fridge. "Does this thing have to be so cold? I feel like I'm going to freeze my tits off."

Her brows pulled together as she sighed. She reminded herself that like most raised as pure-blood idealists, he likely hadn't paid much attention in Muggle Studies and, unlike her, didn't have the benefit of being so versed in both worlds by happenstance of his upbringing. It probably never even occurred to him to wonder how Muggles kept their food from spoiling when they couldn't use stasis charms on their pantry cupboards.

"It does, yeah, Frosty Nips. Keeps the food fresh longer."

Mirroring her expression, he stood up. God, he made her refrigerator seem short. She had to stand on her toes to reach the items on top of it. Bastard.

"So, what happens to the food if it stops working?" He sounded honestly aghast at the notion that anything edible should be left to some unknown fate.

She shrugged. "Depends on the reason that it stops working. If the power goes out, keep the doors shut and hope nothing spoils before it comes back up. If the refrigerator breaks down completely, get a new one."

He returned to his search of the shelves, finally coming out with the prepackaged kielbasa she didn't realize she was hoping he wouldn't find until she saw him holding it. That was dinner for two nights for her and no doubt he'd gobble it up as a snack.

"Thorfinn, no."

"How does one cook this?" he asked with a curious frown, clearly not hearing her as he turned the package over in his hands. "Oh! Cooking instructions right on the back! That's so clever."

She pinched between her brows in a gesture of exhaustion. Honestly, she wasn't certain if she should ignore that he'd just praised a Muggle convention or spend the energy it would take to feel surprised by it.

The next thing she knew, he was puttering about her kitchen looking for cookware that best fit the description advised in those aforementioned instructions. "I swear, it's like Death Eaters need to be housebroken," she muttered under her breath.

Thorfinn glanced at her over his shoulder as he brought the appropriate pan over to the stove. "Do you suggest boiling or pan frying?"

Her shoulders slumped. That was when he once more looked at her, his eyes moving over her in a head-to-toe sweep. "You're wearing rabbits on your feet."

Dropping her gaze to her slippers, she lifted one leg. Hermione watched those big, floppy ears bounce side to side as she wiggled her foot in the air. This would be why she never packed these things in her trunk for Hogwarts—as deliciously comfy as they were, it was hard to be taken seriously when your footwear called to mind fluffy, twitchy-nosed forest creatures.

She ignored the sound of his snickering as he went back to preparing his post-brunch snack. _This_ was the man her father had thought she might eventually grow out of 'not even liking?'

Oh, she would love to go back a thousand years and kick him right in the bollocks for that idea!

Now that she thought on it, Thorfinn Rowle's presence in her kitchen twice in less than 24 hours was probably precisely why, even in a daze, she'd decided she needed more caffeine than that delicate little demitasse cup of coffee she'd had at the Malfoys' had afforded her.

* * *

"What's that you've got there?"

She didn't glance up at the sound of Thorfinn's voice as he entered the living room. Apparently finished devouring what was likely the first meal he'd ever made for himself, he'd come to find her—not that she'd gone very far. She still hadn't even gone up to get dressed, only having unwound the towel from her hair and hanging it over the staircase railing.

A mirthless grin curving her lips as she sat stiffly in the center of the couch, she ran her hands over the cover of the photo album in her lap. "When I . . . when I recalled what was done to me, I saw my moth—I saw Dahlia Granger hand me a book. Well, that book is long gone, now, but when I remembered that, I knew what it meant. I knew what I was seeing. Stupid enchantment filled my head with memories of a life that never was. I must've looked back on the photographs in here a hundred times while I was growing up. There was never a flicker to tell me anything was wrong, or any ripple of something being off, nothing to suggest there was something about the photos inside that should tell me . . . . _anything_. And as I sit here holding this, I realize it's because the magic was not in the images . . . it was in my head."

Sighing heavily through his nostrils, he rounded the sofa and eased himself down to sit beside her. Proving her correct in her earlier assertion that he wasn't an idiot, he said, "You're afraid to open it because you don't know what you expect to see in there. Well, I suppose that's not entirely true. You expect to open it and find yourself missing from photographs you've seen yourself in the last near-eleven years, and what you _can't _expect is how that's going to make you feel."

She gave a determined pout, her lower lip trembling a little. "You're right. Of course, you're right, you're the only person in the world who actually _gets_ what this is like." A lump was forming in her throat as she tightened her fingers around the edges of the album cover. "I think that's why our fathers decided that if one of us was going to go through this, then we both had to. So we would have someone who understood."

"Says you. I think my father was so determined to marry me off to a British pure-blood noble and just tired enough of my shit that he was all, 'good riddance,' when I went into that bronze sleep."

Meeting his gaze, she couldn't help but snicker, even fully aware that lightening the mood and getting a laugh out of her was his intent. "That's not true. Well, maybe the marrying you off bit, but . . . I was there, after you went to sleep. I saw—"

"Don't you dare sit there and tell me that man got emotional," he said, shaking a finger in her face. "Even try it, and I'll know you're full of rubbish. My father was not one for letting on that he even _had_ feelings. Should've seen the time he dropped a log on his foot. Mum had to put a sticking charm on him just to pin him down so the healer could treat him."

Her brightened expression sobered a bit as she waited for him to lower his hand. "I was going to say that I saw his eyes. He was stoic, oh, yes, but there was a sadness there that hadn't been before you'd left him."

Thorfinn squared his jaw as he darted his gaze all over the place. "I don't think I can picture that." He snapped his attention back to lock on her face and she knew there was no imagining the watery sheen in his blue eyes. "I didn't let him see, but . . . but God, I was _so_ scared that day."

"I know you didn't. Put on a good show." She swallowed hard, nodding. "We both did. I was scared, too."

"You were?"

Again, she nodded, smiling sadly. "How couldn't I be? I was terrified. At the last minute, I told my father I didn't want to go." And of course her voice broke a bit on that last word.

"You acted so hard about it all!" His teeth sank into his bottom lip a moment as he simply stared at her. "I thought, what is my father doing, expecting me to grow up and marry this girl who's so much braver than me? She is going to run all over me."

The witch couldn't help but laugh. "It's not brave to do something if you've got no fear of it, but . . . ." She forced out a harsh breath, fighting to keep herself collected before she could go on. "I wasn't truly scared until after you went to sleep. It was_ so_ hard not crying."

"After I went to sleep? Really?" A smirk played on his lips. "So you _did _like me then?"

Hermione uttered an affronted gasp. "I . . . I did not, I still hated you, I just didn't want to be on my own."

His eyes narrowed in a teasing look. "No, no. You liked me, admit it!"

"I'll admit no such thing, sir!"

"Which can only be said if there's something _to_ admit, madam."

Laughing in spite of herself, the witch shook her head. "Thank you."

He braced an elbow on his knee and dropped his chin down against his palm. "Caught on, did you?"

"Trying not to let things get too moody or serious? Yeah. Starting to think that might be your strong suit."

"You're welcome." With his free hand, he reached over and tapped the cover of the album she clutched so tightly. "You know, you don't have to do this. You don't have to look. No one would blame you if you decided not to."

"I know, but . . . ." Again, she shook her head. "I feel like I need to. This is _really_ happening, and I need to do whatever I can to make everything feel . . . solid, I suppose. Maybe there's even a chance things like this—confirming what of my past was true and what was some false recollection—will help me unearth my real memories."

Nodding, he sat up, sinking back into the couch pillows behind him. He only watched her as she deliberated for a few heartbeats—she may have said she needed to do this, but the willpower to actually go through with opening that cover and thumbing through those images as another matter.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, Hermione gave herself a shake. Finally, she felt braced enough, and she eased open the cover. A miserable sound escaped her as she turned to the first image she recalled of her parents with her as a baby. There they were, happy, smiling as she recalled, but no tiny infant was nestled between them.

The ice skating rink where William Granger had taken a snapshot of Dahlia tugging a 4 year old Hermione along by her hand? Only Dahlia was caught, mid-motion gliding across the ice. Again and again, page after page, pictures where she now recognized the image of her had only been superimposed by the enchantment on her mind's eye.

After what seemed far too long, she reached the last third of the album, when she was 8—after she'd actually become part of their lives. And suddenly, there she was, honestly _in_ the photos. Dahlia and William Granger beamed in each shot, but seeing those bright smiles only made the growing ache in her chest sharper.

"Do you think it was all an act?"

Oh, he did not like the sound of her talking through the tears crowding her throat. He scowled, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of protectiveness creeping over him. "Was what all an act?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but had to close it and start again. "The smiles, the looks of pride . . . . That they actually loved me?" Wiping at her cheeks, she wasn't at all surprised when the back of her hand came away damp. "I mean, I think they did. I _felt _like they did. But it could've all been an act. And them not being here? I thought I was protecting them, removing myself from their memories and sending them away, where they'd be safe. Really, I was only returning them to the life they had before I came along."

He was not prepared for the weight of her chestnut eyes so filled with tears as she turned to face him directly. "Do you suppose they're happier without me?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he said in an exasperated whisper. Pulling the album from her hands, he circled her with his arms and guided her to rest her head in the hollow of his shoulder. "I know it hurts, but for whatever it's worth, they protected you, they raised you, doted on you, yeah?"

Sniffling, she nodded, not hating the warm press of him beneath her cheek.

"Then I'm sure they loved you. All that's not something you do if you're only caring for someone out of obligation."

She knew he was right. Harry's childhood was a testament to the sort of upbringing bare-minimum childrearing obligations led to. It always left her marveling that he'd not grown up to be a more bitter person.

"Again, you're right."

There was a smile in his voice as he said, "You know what? I think I rather enjoy hearing that."

Hermione shook her head, holding in a laugh. Good Lord, he really was keeping her grounded by not letting her wallow for too many moments at a clip—a bit like letting pressure seep out in small spurts, so a more explosive reaction was staved off. Maybe like this, the weight of all these revelations wouldn't crush her. Maybe like this, chipping away at her shock and letting her feelings out bit by bit and then distracting her, allowing the new information to settle in her mind before chipping away again, she could make it through this rather literal identity crisis with her sanity, and her personality, intact.

"I'd hex you for being a smart arse," she said, fighting a grin, "but I left my wand upstairs. Wait."

Putting her hand on his chest, she pushed herself to sit up and looked at him. She already had realized the answer earlier, herself, but she needed to ask, anyway; she needed clarification and to know she'd guessed correctly. "What did any of this have to do with you breaking my old wand?"

Thorfinn held her gaze steadily, acutely aware of the press of her hand against him. "One of the things _said_ about your father's wand that's actually true is that he somehow crafted into it the ability to go dormant, and that it would only 'wake' when it came into the possession of one deemed worthy of its power. He always intended to pass it on to you when he died. But, as long as there was another wand bound to your magic, the weapon would've stayed sleeping."

So, the snakewood wand _was_ truly hers, now. "That makes a strange amount of sense," she responded, pouting thoughtfully.

Silence threaded the room, and she noticed his gaze had fallen to lock on her lips. Worse, she also noticed that she didn't hate the way his fixed attention made the delicate skin tingle. Even trying to remind herself that this wasn't a thing that should happen, at least not _now_—not only given the roller coaster of the last half-day, but given that she was only clad in that bathrobe!—she found herself leaning toward him.

Hermione thought perhaps he'd pull away and chuckle at her, teasingly tell her 'see? You do like me,' but he didn't. Instead, he was drifting forward to meet her. The first brush of his mouth against hers was soft, delicate, and somehow still took her breath away.

Leaning back enough to look at her, he searched her gaze with his own. Thorfinn reached up, cupping a hand against her cheek. He drew her close once more, his mouth crashing against hers.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his robes as his tongue plunged between her lips. She welcomed the hungry, almost rough exploration, caressing his tongue with her own while she moved closer to him.

He broke the kiss, dragging his mouth along her cheek and down to the side of her throat. The arm around her tightened, pulling her nearer, still, as he nipped at her earlobe, sending a sweet, tingly little jolt through her.

She nearly gave into the impulse to climb into his lap, but then she felt the fingers of his free hand tug at the neck of her bathrobe. And that was when her current state of undress came crashing down over her. She wasn't even wearing knickers, and with the, _ahem,_ easy access of wizard robes, it wouldn't be too far outside the realm of possibility for this to go too far too fast.

"Thorfinn, stop." Hermione pulled away, her breathing a little rough, and braced her palms against his chest.

Those blue eyes snapped open, a bit hazy. He shook his head at her. "Should I be apologizing?"

"No, no. I did sort of instigate this, so no." She shook her head right back, folding her arms around herself. "It's not that. That was . . . _nice_, and I'm certainly not sorry it happened, but it's just too soon. Besides, you remember what Draco probably said to his parents before we left?"

He laughed, recalling having to drag her away from going to pummel the little shit. "Yeah?"

The witch smirked, tipping closer to him, once more. "Hell will freeze over before I let Draco Malfoy be right." She dropped a quick kiss on his lips before rising from the couch. "I'll get dressed, and then we go back to the Manor."

"All right." Thorfinn sat back, folding his hands behind his head. "But if you think I'm going to wait too long before you and I revisit what just happened, you're a mad woman."

Hermione laughed as she turned on her heel and started toward the staircase. She didn't dare glance back at him—at his dense, muscly stature lounging on her couch like that—because she knew if she did, it would only make her more sharply cognizant of how her body was screaming at her for not letting them get any further just now.

* * *

Draco grinned as the apparent couple entered the Manor doors early that evening. Though he didn't say anything to Rowle—he wasn't precisely 'afraid' of Thorfinn Rowle, but he was always mindful that the man could probably crush his throat with one hand and very little effort if he so chose, that and he probably hadn't forgiven Draco for that nasty business of Voldemort using him to break the memory charm Hermione'd placed on Rowle during the War—he pivoted on his heel to trail after Hermione.

She didn't wait for him to speak, though she slowed her pace to walk beside him. "Tell me something, did your parents ever let on about who I really was when we were growing up?"

"Not really." He shrugged. "But I did find it odd that they told me to mind you, but not let on that I was doing it. No one was to know I was looking out for you."

"Explains why you were always such an arse—you played your role well."

"It's funny, but I hadn't realized until last night when they told me the truth that my parents never used the word Mudblood when talking about you, in fact, I don't remember ever hearing either of them use it at all. Picked that up from my friends at school."

That was a shock to her system, for certain, but now that she recalled . . . . Even when they'd been dragged by the Snatchers to Malfoy Manor during the War, neither Narcissa nor Lucius had said that word. Bellatrix certainly had, and so, too, had Fenrir Greyback, but not the Malfoys. That confirmed for her the notion she'd guessed at earlier—that there were two camps of those loyal to the memory of her father, those who followed the bitter man who'd died lonely and hateful, and those who knew of the man he'd been _before _all his loss had torn his heart asunder.

That, however, was yet another thing she would leave until the appropriate moment to verify. All the assumptions in the world meant absolutely nothing if they were wrong.

Draco breathed out a laugh at her visible astonishment and shook his head. "And it _also_ explains why I was there to tell Potter and Weasel-bee to make sure the Death Eaters didn't see you when all hell broke loose during the World Cup, yeah?"

"It's so strange that how out of character that was for you never occurred to me. You seemed to hate me so much, doing anything that meant protecting me should've stood out to me."

Draco nodded, shrugging again. "Remember second year? Did you, by chance, find a page in your bag about the Basilisk?"

"That was your doing?"

"At my father's instruction. I never thought much of it. It was that day at Flourish and Blotts, he told me to go find a book that had the information on how to protect oneself from its gaze, but not to be obvious about it. So I just took the page I needed, but when the fight broke out, I missed the chance to pass it along to you." He frowned. "Now that I think on it, the timing of my father and Weasel-bee, Sr. getting into that row was probably meant as a distraction so I could put the page in your bag then, but I didn't realize at the time. Waited until you left your bag unattended in the library one day."

"I always wondered where that page had come from." Her eyes narrowed lethally and she shook her head, remembering the ragged edge of the page. "I can't believe you defiled a book."

Now that he'd gotten a good amount of sleep, he was back to his smug, smarmy self. "So, speaking of large serpents and defilement," he started in a quiet voice, "did you take so long getting back here because you and Rowle were playing 'hide the Basilisk'?"

She stopped mid-stride and turned her head to glare up at him.

* * *

"_Ow! That—that was uncalled for!"_

Narcissa and Lucius looked up at the sound of Draco bellowing out in the main hall. Thorfinn, who'd just crossed the threshold of the study, turned his attention back over his shoulder.

Into the room Hermione stepped, moving past Thorfinn, even as his curious gaze followed her. Draco hobbled in behind her, spitting out silent curses as he made his way to the nearest seat and folded into it.

Thorfinn nodded to the other young man. "Got you in the bollocks, did she?"

His grey eyes narrowing, Draco said from between clenched teeth, "What do you think?"

"Well," Thorfinn offered, shrugging, "it's sort of her specialty."

Hermione ignored them both as she approached the elder Malfoys. Lucius was seated behind the desk and Narcissa was settled in the most ladylike way into the cushy sofa nearest her husband's position. "Before any of this goes any further, I have been thinking about how to proceed publicly."

Lucius exchanged a look with Narcissa as she sat up a bit straighter. "We are listening."

"Well, Harry and the Weasleys are all vacationing abroad right now, and I realized something as I considered writing to Harry just to let him know we needed to talk when he got back home. Which was what took so long," she tacked on, casting an baleful glance back at Draco. "But I realized that perhaps, for the time being, who I really am should be kept quiet—as in no one outside this room is to know anything at all has changed about me. If anyone else knows who I am, they're to go on thinking I don't recall, just yet. If that's possible, I mean."

Lucius nodded. "It is."

"Good. The second thing, the thing I _need_ to do . . . ." She drew in a deep breath and let it out slow, nodding to herself before going on. "I need to find proof of the type of man my father _really_ had been before he sent me into that sleep. I don't think Dumbledore would've been so quick to enforce those locks on my memory if not for the fact that he, like _most_ of Wizarding Britain, believed Godric Gryffindor was the hero of the story, if there was one, and the only way for me not to 'turn out like Salazar'—the only way to ensure that I'd fight _against_ Voldemort—was to keep me ignorant of who I am. I want to prove to everyone that my father was _not _the monster Godric Gryffindor's version of history painted him to be."


	7. Chapter 7

**Anon Reviewer who questioned Hermione's observation about Narcissa's Squib House Keeper (and who's review I'm sorry to say I accidentally deleted DX)**

**Hermione's inner narration at that moment was not doing anything BUT acknowledging that some Squibs, not all, _some_ Squibs**—**like Filch**—"**believed" that pure-bloods being in charge was the way things were supposed to be, that was_ all._ She wasn't condoning it, she wasn't accepting that some Squibs think that way, nor was she agreeing with the sentiment, she was simply observing that this particular house keeper was _one_ of the people of his same blood status who also upholds that belief.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"What you must first understand about your father," Lucius said when they were all gathered around the dinner table that evening—apparently pure-bloods weren't so different from Muggles, in that their brains worked best when food was involved—and the housekeeper had excused herself to tend to other duties around the manor until she was called, "is that he was, as the motto for his House dictates, a traditionalist. Before the Statute of Secrecy was enacted, it wasn't unheard of for pure-blood families to intermingle with the upper crust of Muggle society. The divide between the two was not so great during the Founding as our world would have you think. He did not, however, believe Muggle-borns should be taught magic . . . by pure-bloods."

"But then who would we learn it from?"

Every head at the table turned to look at her then. Hermione shrugged as she met each of their gazes in turn, aware their collective attention had been captured by her including herself as a Muggle-born. "Look, I've only known I'm not a Muggle-born for a day, and we already agreed not to let on to anyone else about who I am. So, maybe for the time being, it's best I don't yet consider myself a pure-blood."

The pale-haired wizard at the head of the table nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "Fair point. Besides, I believe it will take a bit of time for any one of us to grow accustomed to calling you anything other than Miss Granger. I'm sure you realize, it isn't that there's_ no_ truth to the terrible things believed about him—in his older years, mostly—more that what is said and 'known' about him are selective truths. It's those selective truths that have been bandied about for centuries as both ways to malign House Slytherin and its founder, and ways to justify the goals of the more self-serving among us, like Voldemort. At the very least, it gave weight to those who put pure-blood idealism above all else."

"Like your family?" she asked, her brows shooting upward.

"Miss Granger," Narcissa said, her tone a bit brusque as she dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin and then carefully laid it back across her lap. "We can all appreciate that you are angry, and still confused, and desire information on everything that has been withheld from you, but patience is required on your part."

"Patience?" Hermione could just feel both Thorfinn and Draco wincing as her voice climbed in volume with that single word. "I've literally been waiting a millennium, and the truth withheld from me for another eleven years on top of that. You don't think that perhaps, under those circumstances, I'm entitled to a little _im_patience?"

The elder witch sighed, looking across the table to her husband. "There'll be no talking to her when she gets like this, I can see it already."

Rolling her eyes in a quelling manner—that only made Thorfinn and Draco wince harder, she was sure—Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slow. "Fine. I'll try to be a little more patient, but you've got to be a little quicker with your explanations. If you can appreciate that I'm angry and confused, then you should also be able to 'appreciate' the frustration I'm feeling."

"The Malfoy family, admittedly, had long forgotten the man Salazar Slytherin had been before he become so enraged with world," Lucius said, stabbing a bit aimlessly at what was left of his filet mignon with his fork. "We only held onto the belief that one day, an heir of Slytherin would emerge, that their goals should be our goals. When Tom Riddle proved himself able to control the Basilisk, it seemed proof-positive that he was the one for whom we'd been waiting. That his notions of pure-blood supremacy were a bit extreme didn't seem to matter so much as his espoused views lined up with what the Wizarding world had always been told about Salazar."

Hermione shook her head, suddenly grateful pure-bloods weren't that different from Old World Europeans and served wine with dinner to _everyone _seated at the table. She reached for her glass, not caring if the long, draining gulp she took that emptied half of it in one go was deemed unladylike by Mrs. Malfoy.

After setting her glass back down and exhaling loudly, Hermione said, "I've already realized that my father was two very different men, depending on when in his life you're looking at, and that, like him, there are two distinct branches of those who seek to uphold his legacy—a realization you just confirmed, actually. How did you come to understand Voldemort wasn't who you hoped he was?"

"I'm sure you've had what seems like a long day, already, so I'll save showing you what I found until tomorrow, _but_ I can tell you exactly the event that made me think I should perhaps look elsewhere to find the heir of Slytherin. It was when he offered Lily Evans the chance to join our side, something in that felt wrong."

"Because she was Muggle-born?"

"To be perfectly frank, yes." Lucius shrugged. "You must understand that first and foremost what Voldemort promised his followers was a peaceful Wizarding world. That the only way to make that vision a reality would be if pure-bloods were in charge. So, you can see at least part of your father's original goal was carried in Voldemort's sentiment. _But_ it was because the only purpose in trying to sway Lily would be for her intellect and magical prowess while completely disregarding that her blood status should deem her unworthy to wield magic at all by his standards, that I started to question. Such a move flew completely in the face of everything he claimed to stand for. I came to believe he was using our beliefs simply to amass power for himself and did not truly hold to anything he claimed. I began digging though our family archives, searching for accounts of the heir of Slytherin as far back as the founding of Hogwarts. I had no choice but to keep up appearances as being loyal to him in the meanwhile or my family would've paid the price."

"There was a sketch in one such account, a copy of a long-since destroyed portrait of Salazar and his family. Well, his _first_ family." Narcissa nodded, her eyes on the remnants of dinner on her plate. "All obvious markers of your existence at that time had been hidden away or disposed of for reasons which are likely evident, you understand. All but a few key people thought you'd contracted your mother's illness and had passed on, and that it was simply too much for your father to speak on losing you both in such a manner, so it was never questioned, not even discussed."

Hermione took another long sip of her wine, not really wanting to revisit her own painful considerations of what Salazar's losses had done to him. She would never excuse his later ways of prejudice and shortsightedness, but she could at least understand the path that brought him there. He might not have lost her the way he'd lost her mother, but he had been willing to sacrifice having her in his life, to sacrifice the opportunity to watch her grow up. So, in a way, she supposed it was worse—knowing she was still alive, that she'd long outlive him but never being able to hear her voice or even touch her hand ever again.

Blinking hard to keep her eyes clear, she gave herself a shake and set down her now-empty glass. "Go on."

"Though the spell your father cast to send you and Rowle into that bronze sleep was not recorded—he feared someone might reverse-engineer it and pull you out of sleep too early, or that someone might use the information to track you both down and find a way to end you in your sleep—the event, itself, was mentioned, as was the expected outcome. After Voldemort died in the First War, I carried the hope that Slytherin's _true_ heir, the little girl in that sketch, would yet one day awaken and come to set our world to rights."

"I'm never going to espouse pure-blood supremacy, if that's where you're headed."

"That's a disappointingly close-minded guess for one such as you, Miss Granger. It's as though you've ignored precisely half of everything I've said."

Thorfinn stood up, then. The Malfoys and Hermione all turned their heads to look at him. The Viking wizard held up his hands, clearly feeling a need to remove himself from the spike in tension pressing on the room. "Seems like this is as good a time as any to break out something a bit stronger than wine. I'm going to go dig up some Fire Whiskey. In that cupboard in the drawing room, I'd imagine, yeah?" He didn't wait for Lucius to answer before he disappeared through the doors.

"In reading those ancient accounts," Lucius went on, as though Thorfinn hadn't just proved himself a walking distraction, "there was much mention of your father in the days _before_ his losses. The timeline is fuzzy, and I daresay the lack of proper records might've well been part of the attempt to cement Gryffindor as some sort of hero, just as you've already deduced, and what is a hero without a villain? So, being that Godric and Salazar were sort of naturally opposed to each other, that left no one else who could fill that role. Hogwarts was established, Houses that favored bravery, friendship, tradition, and intellect. During that time, your father had brought up the initial idea of establishing a monarchy to give Wizarding Britain a more stable governing body. Godric hated this idea, vehemently, but Salazar thought it was worth consideration at least. Your mother was a widow when she and your father fell in love. They had you, of course. A handful of years later, when Salazar again broached the idea of creating a fiefdom, which she came to believe was a good idea, as well, the more she saw the failings of the Wizard Council—_and_ which I believe was considered an especially grievous blow by Godric, as she was a good friend of his—she became ill and died.

"You had half-siblings, of course. An older sister from your mother's first union who, sadly, met an tragic and early end sometime after your mother took ill—a loss which I believe is what made your mother so vulnerable to Godric's curse—and then the children your father would go on to have after his disposition had changed. But it was not the same. _You _were his first child, the only child of _their_ union, and were, in his words, special. He became so bitter, so hateful, so wrathful, and all of that negativity was directed at Godric, and—by extension—Godric's ideals. A belief that pure-bloods shouldn't be in charge of educating Muggle-borns became warped into the argument that they were less-than. I think it should be fairly evident how things further devolved from there."

Hermione rubbed her hands over her face. She couldn't think about the horror that her mother's final days must've been just now. Certainly it seemed clear that she must've witnessed as least some of her mother's physical decline, and she could only hope those memories hit first, _before_ she had the chance to remember the woman, herself—before she had the chance for the recollection of losing her to truly hurt. It really_ had_ been a long day, so far, and she chose to return her focus to the question that had been inadvertently evaded this entire conversation.

"I still don't understand that part. If it began as simply 'pure-bloods should not teach Muggle-borns,' then how did it go from that to 'Muggle-borns do not deserve to possess magic?' Seems a fairly wide margin there. Who was supposed to teach us, then? And why _shouldn't_ pure-bloods teach Muggle-borns?"

"This discussion is jumping around a bit," Draco said, sagging back in his chair. "Starting to feel like I should be taking notes with columns and line items."

Scowling, Hermione fixed a narrow-eyed gaze on him. "That's actually not a bad idea. Now go back to being quiet before I make you go fetch a quill and some parchment."

Draco's brows drew upward and he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Lucius, who'd been watching his son since the younger wizard had piped up, pursed his lips before returning his attention to Hermione. "It was during my research that I came across the true-held beliefs of Salazar Slytherin. Beliefs I knew I had to keep secret, because no one likes to learn that they were_ not_ the chosen few meant to have control. I, and my family, might've been in mortal danger from those I thought of as my brethren just for possessing such knowledge, let alone choosing to follow it. We had seen you that day in Diagon Alley, before the messy situation in the bookshop. You looked striking familiar to me, and I thought 'is that the girl from the portrait?' You were already in your Hogwarts robes, so I found a way to get the information about the plans for uncovering the Chamber of Secrets to you without tipping my hand to the others."

Hermione nodded. "By having Draco slip me that book page."

"I couldn't be sure that you were _you_, but as the world believed you a Muggle-born, you were in danger from the Basilisk. I thought the best way to protect you was to prepare you for how to deal with encountering the creature. When you became petrified, I lost hope. I thought I was wrong."

She refused to let her mind turn that over for very long—how lonely and sad the poor creature must've been, and how terrible that it was killed knowing she was there, and yet that she had been afraid of it the very last time they'd ever meet. "And then you nearly Avada'ed Harry over losing your house elf."

Lucius gave a languid shrug. "I was very angry that year. And the loss of a house elf is a _very _serious thing. When you've been raised all your life with them, it's a bit like losing a limb. I'm sure you considered it a matter of wounded pride, or something equally superficial."

A sneer curled Hermione's lip. "Could you blame me?"

"Given the more recent portion of your upbringing, I suppose not. Regardless. I went back to consulting the archives. You looked so much like the girl in that portrait, that I was conflicted on how you could be her if you were unable to command the Basilisk. There it was, though, in the notations. That your memories would be barred from your conscious mind so long as they posed a danger to you. Clearly, Tom Riddle's potential resurrection was deemed exactly that; the magic must've somehow understood that though he had died that night he attacked the Potters', there was a way he might return. So, we had to simply watch and wait, and keep up more than a few unsavory behaviors for the sake of appearances. And then there came the name of your guardians."

"The Grangers? They were mentioned?"

"When one of their ancestors first traveled to Scotland from France. The name was slightly different—Grangier. The man who came into Salazar's service was a Squib. He changed his name to differentiate himself and no longer despoil the name of his pure-blood family—" He held up his hand, cutting off a protest he simply_ knew_ she was about to voice. "I am quoting from those archived accounts, Miss Granger. This new 'Muggle' family line went on to keep just close enough ties to the Wizarding world to know what was happening without actually making themselves known. They handed down their own records of what had happened, of what was to be done when you awoke from the bronze—likely they disposed of those records once you were conscious to further safeguard you. I believe, were we to investigate your adoptive mother's maiden name, we'd find a link back to this same family line."

"Hector Dagworth-Granger," she said suddenly, her brows pinching together.

The Malfoys all exchanged a glance. "What?" Narcissa asked, seemingly speaking for the three of them.

Hermione waved dismissively. "Oh, it was just . . . Professor Slughorn had once asked if I was any relation to Hector Dagworth-Granger, founder of The Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneeers. I said no, because as far as I was aware, it was just coincidence, as 'Granger' is not an entirely uncommon name. I thought there was a chance it was possible, of course, that _maybe_ some distant relation to the Dagworth family was where my magic had come from. But if my . . . my guardians kept close to the Wizarding world, then I suppose it made sense that at some point there was intermarrying. Draco was right, this conversation is all over the place. How was educating Muggle-borns about their magic supposed to be handled and why did my father think pure-bloods shouldn't be involved if _not_ for the notion of Muggle-borns being beneath them?"

Lucius sighed. He should've just dragged her down to the archives, thrown her at the books, and let her suss this all out for herself. "He believed that given their backgrounds as part of the Muggle world, the very way they related to magic was different than that of pure-bloods, and so pure-bloods would not be able to teach them adequately given their lack of understanding. But, as with any child born possessed of magic, it was still necessary to teach them. Still the responsibility of the Wizarding world to do so. Half-bloods were deemed the ideal candidates for such positions, because they were of _both_ worlds."

Hermione felt disconnected from the moment as she listened. That made sense, actually. It was still a hair elitist, but it was completely logical. Even in modern Muggle schooling, it was considered ideal to have students taught by mentors who could understand the world in which_ they_ lived—not only were the students more likely to listen, but the teacher was more likely to construct their lessons in a way that accommodated their particular needs.

"We keep saying it, but . . . it's true. My father _was_ two different men. There was the Salazar Slytherin who actually cared and was sensible, and then this Salazar Slytherin who was so hard in his views that how history sees him has never been questioned. I can't abide that second man, but I also can't pretend the first didn't exist now that I've gotten some of my memories of him back."

"You need to take time with this, Miss Granger," Narcissa said, her voice low and gentle. "You've been made to absorb a _lot_ of information over this last day, alone—information at odds with much of your long-held beliefs. There is no hurry, here. That is why Lucius suggested you not look at the archives, yourself, until tomorrow, but if you wish to go there now, I'll gladly take you—"

"No, Mrs. Malfoy, you're right. I appreciate the offer, but I do seem to be trying to soak in everything at once and it's just too much. I should be going slower with this, or at least at a rate that doesn't make me feel like my brain might combust at any moment."

"I suppose this goes without saying," the elder witch went on, "but you are welcome to use of the Hollyhock Room while you conduct your research. I imagine that might be easier than traveling back and forth to your home."

Nodding, Hermione forced a smile. "That's very kind of you. These accounts in your family archives . . . could they be the proof I need about my father?"

"Unfortunately, none of it is so ironclad." Lucius shook his head. "They are personal accounts, and while normally that would likely be enough, in a matter as potentially volatile as proving Salazar Slytherin not a demon and Godric Gryffindor not a saint, I'm afraid they would not be considered evidence_ enough_. We are going to need something more solid to act as support of what we have in our archives before coming forward with even a word of this. Also, I am troublingly certain that were we to make any of what you've learned known to anyone in the Ministry _before_ we have that solid proof, your life might be in danger."

"You really think—"

"What I think is that Godric Gryffindor was not a man to be trusted. His most staunch follower in our time, Albus Dumbledore, was not a man to be trusted beyond what he needed to do to accomplish what _he_ saw as right. I think there are those who would consider killing one witch—even war hero such as yourself—a small price to pay for protecting Gryffindor's legacy."

She pushed aside her plate and braced her elbows on the table, letting her face drop into her hands. Her brain was definitely ready to burst into flames, even as a chill curled along her spine.

"Seems like I came back just in time." Thorfinn rounded the table and uncapped the whiskey bottle, pouring a generous helping into his betrothed's empty wine glass. "Anyone else?"

All three Malfoys nodded, polishing off their wine and setting their glasses back down for Rowle to fill.


	8. Chapter 8

**This chapter is sure to have many readers going, "I KNEW IT!" XD**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"Oh," Mother said in a cooing tone as she brushed Sabina's hair back from her teary little face. "Did you get into fight with your sister again?"

Sniffling, the girl nodded, but refused to lift her head. It wasn't fair! Her sister was practically a grown woman, she had no need of a mother! Not as a child of six did! "She said I will not go to Hogwarts because I am no good at magic and they will not want me!"

"_Oh,"_ the elder witch repeated, her voice lilting as she carefully reached down, lifting her daughter into her lap. Sabina could feel the way Mother's arms trembled a little at the effort. Sabina'd been trying to eat less at meals, so she could stay light for Mother's sake, but that blasted elf always noticed and informed her parents. _My sweet little serpent, become any smaller and you will disappear_, Father'd say. And Mother would tack on with a wan smile, _If you insist on making me feel better, do so by keeping your health,_ making Sabina feel wretchedly guilty, but the girl had no idea what else she could do that might be helpful.

"You must not listen to such rubbish. Your magic is still new. And I know something she does not."

Sabina reached out, toying with Mother's long, pitch black hair—wild as her own, though the thick locks had lost some of their luster in recent months—as she pouted. That . . . that _wretch_ had said even someone as important as their mother would not be able to argue Hogwarts into accepting such an unworthy student, but she left that out. It would only sound as though she was trying to get the older girl into trouble.

If she was going to be accused of_ that_, she'd let it be when she was doing it on purpose!

"It is that you are destined to be a great witch. We do not truly come into our magic until we are a bit older than you are, so it is no surprise you are not _yet_ good at spells."

Sabina knew that made sense. She knew people expected much of her, however, even at her age. For as long as she could remember, she'd understood more than she was 'supposed to' for a child so young, and everyone had spoken to her as though she were already an adult. "Will I be a greater witch than you?"

Mother let out a soft, scoffing laugh. "I have a feeling you will be many things, my dearest, not the least among those a _formidable_ witch."

Her daughter's pout deepened. "That is not really an answer."

"Well, it was a silly question."

"All right, I shall ask a sensible one." The girl glanced back toward the doors, assuring herself her sister was, in fact, not on her heels ready to barrel in and furnish their mother with _her _explanation of their argument. "Why does she hate me?"

"No, no, my dear little bird, you." Mother gathered Sabina tighter in her arms, hugging her nearly suffocatingly before she held her back enough to meet her gaze, again. "I do not believe she hates you at all. I think it is more that she . . . she envies you."

Suddenly, the girl felt foolish. Foolish and selfish and . . . . Sniffling anew at the sadness that struck her, she chewed at her lower lip for a few moments before working up a response. "Is it because I have a father?"

Mother's chestnut-colored gaze dimmed a bit and she frowned thoughtfully; the expression made the dark circles beneath her eyes more pronounced for a fluttering heartbeat. "In a sense, yes, but not precisely. It is a little more than that. Her father and I . . . . even before he passed, we were not close. We were an arrangement, and unfortunately, love never blossomed from our matching. But as for your father? You well know, I love that man very much." She smiled gently as she spoke those words, as though she could not help herself, her fingers trailing delicately through her daughter's hair. "I think when your sister sees the three of us together—you, your father, and me—it makes her feel cheated out of something in her own childhood."

"I am already matched. Does that mean I will not have love in my marriage, either?"

Tilting her head, her mother's eyes widened as she processed the question. Sabina knew that look—it was the 'such things this child says' look. "No. When I was matched, it was rather a blind arrangement. He and I did not know one another before we were wed. I think what your father and the Jarl have done, betrothing you while you are still young so that you will have the chance to know one another well before you are expected to marry, is quite smart."

Sabina arched a brow. "It is not often you say such about the actions of others. And my betrothed is a barbarian!"

Mother snickered. "I think he will grow to be quite a charming man. And he will protect you fiercely."

"Hmph. I shall protect _myself_ fiercely. And I will _not_ come to love him as you love father."

The little girl's stubborn words only brought another laugh out of her mother. "I am certain you will be quite capable of protecting yourself, still it is nice to have someone willing to do whatever they must to keep you safe. It is hardly as though I need your father to protect me, now is it? Yet, I am happy that he _can_, if need be. As for love? Well, to be truthful, not many people do find what your father and I have, but that does not make it impossible. However, you make it even less possible by insisting it cannot be so."

Disliking the turn of the conversation, Sabina said, "I believe we have gone off topic."

With a smirk, Mother shook her head—the child did not enjoy the realization that she was losing an argument. "And _I _believe we have simply branched into a tangent. However, I will return to my original point. Your sister is not so hateful toward you as her behavior would make it seem. She is only human, after all, and anyone observing contentment they feel they were denied might lash out, because they are in pain."

Nodding, Sabina slid down from her mother's lap, the expression on her still teary-eyed little face determined. "I understand. I shall go apologize, then!"

The woman watched her daughter's tiny form drift toward her bed chamber doors. "Sabina?"

Reaching for the crystal doorknobs, she turned back, meeting Mother's gaze. "Yes?"

"For . . . for what, precisely, are you going to apologize?"

Sabina blinked, her face and voice both matter-of-fact as she explained—in that way which suggested she was surprised Mother, of all people, had even needed to ask, "I am going to tell her how sorry I am that she has no father and has to watch me being happy. That must hurt terribly. It is a wonder she is not _more _awful to me!"

Mother's jaw fell open as she watched the little girl open the doors and step through. "Oh, no. My little bird,_ wait_," she called, standing to hurry after her younger daughter before her apology had her older sister hurling things at her—or worse, trying to hurl Sabina, herself, out the nearest window.

* * *

Hermione awoke with a quiet start. Her breath trapped in her lungs, her eyes snapped open and she stared up at the canopy of the bed in the Hollyhocks Room.

Forcing herself to draw in an inhalation, she blinked a few times, processing the night-darkened shapes around her.

Her hands were trembling as she lifted them to her face, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. She could still feel the way her mother's arms shook as the woman had lifted her. There was still the texture of the strands of Mothers' hair sliding beneath her fingers. So, too, had there been the realization that her mother's lap had become narrower, and it had little to do with being a growing child.

She sat up, crossing her legs beneath the quilt and folding her arms around herself. She hadn't wanted this . . . she hadn't wanted to recall her mother, yet.

Her lower lip shivered as she sniffled. _Backward_. She'd wanted to remember backward, loss first, love second, so the memory of losing her wouldn't be quite so painful.

Yet now, as an adult looking back on those childhood realizations, those little notices that hadn't truly registered on her at the time, she couldn't stop herself from filling in that terrifying, gaping blank her younger self had so skillfully avoided acknowledging in that way children had—children like her had two default settings, brutally honest, and deliberately ignoring what was directly in front of them.

She'd seen the signs of her mother's illness. Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight. She had known Mother wasn't recovering—had guessed that she would never recover. There was never any hope she would get better, no matter what potions Father brewed or how many meals her 6-year-old daughter tried to spare herself from eating to keep her body small in light of the witch's constantly waning strength

The uncomfortable warmth of tears beading in her eyes blurred her vision. She'd known her mother was dying all along. She had _known_, and yet, she had believed—in that childlike way she'd thought at the time—that if she ignored it, then it couldn't be true.

And she couldn't remember anymore! Not yet, not without more time for her mind to settle and let the memories slip out like . . . like droplets of water from a clogged spigot, for fuck's sake!

As she felt the tears roll down her cheeks, the full force of it hit her. Her life_ had_ been stolen from her! She'd said as much, but the weight of those words had not actually had any impact, then. But now? Now she could not remember her own mother beyond a few minutes of her life!

Because of Godric Gryffindor, her mother had been taken from her and her father's heart had turned to stone. Because of Albus Dumbledore, her recollections of Mother had been kept from her!

Before she knew it, she was sobbing. She clamped her lips shut, half-muffling a scream of frustration and rage at the sheer cold-heartedness of it all. Taking so much from a child without even caring . . . they might as well have killed her, too!

Hermione didn't realize how loud she was crying until the door to her room opened. Looking toward the entryway as she drew in a few quick, shivering breaths, she saw Thorfinn and the Malfoys there. All four of them look sleep-rumbled and bleary-eyed.

Well, they hadn't_ all_ needed to come check on her! So she was their 'princess', so _what_? Princesses had fits all the time! Couldn't they bloody well go back to their rooms and ignore hers?

"What's this, now?" Draco asked in an exhausted tumble of sound.

Still, try as she might to calm herself, Hermione was having trouble catching her breath. After a few shaky attempts, she managed to say, "My mother."

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a sympathetic glance as Thorfinn's shoulders drooped.

"Bollocks," he said in a rumbling breath as he shook his head.

Crossing the threshold, he made a bee-line for the bed. Settling beside her, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. As earlier that day on the sofa in the home of her Muggle guardians, she let her cheek rest against his chest.

Again, she was reminded of how warm and comfortable he was. Unfortunately, it was that comfort—that inherent sense of safety that she knew she absolutely should not feel in the arms of one had been branded with Tom Riddle's hideous Dark Mark—that renewed her sorrow by sheer contrast and she was crying again. The center of her chest was aching, like jagged shards of ice rattling about in her heart as that single slip of time she'd spent with her mother played over and over again. She was recalling everything—even the minute details she'd overlooked at the time.

The scent of the perfumed water that Mother sprinkled in her hair, the feel of the fine silk and velvet of mother's dress when the fabric brushed the backs of her bare hands. These, too, had been signs of her mother's illness taking its toll. That distant observation sparked the understanding in her adult mind that the sicker her mother become, the more extravagant her robes, the finer the scents and powders she used, so that a constant lovely aroma surrounded her.

It made Hermione's stomach clench to realize now that the perfumed cloud she associated with her mother was to cover whatever negative affect the illness was having on Mother's body chemistry. Whatever the original scent her mother's skin might've been, Hermione couldn't recall.

"How long are they going to be staying here?" Draco's voice, hushed though it was, broke through the sound of Hermione's sobbing.

Narcissa gave her son a withering look as Lucius clamped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "As long as they need."

Lucius nodded, reaching in to grab the doorknob with his free hand. "Perhaps we should leave them be."

By the time Thorfinn looked up, Malfoys had vanished from sight, and the door was closed. He sighed, his shoulders slumping all over again. Hermione's shuddering cries had settled down into slight shivering.

He knew who was responsible for this mess. If she'd been permitted for her charm to break on its own, as his had, she'd not be going through this sort of agony now. Not in this weird, disjointed way that could not possibly be good for her.

"Dumbledore's lucky he's already dead," he said in a lethal whisper.

Her eyes drifted closed and stayed closed as she heard the echo of her mother's voice in her head. _I am certain you will be quite capable of protecting yourself, still it is nice to have someone willing to do whatever they must to keep you safe._ Thorfinn Rowle's palpable anger with the deceased elder wizard was comforting under the circumstances. She knew her emotions did not require validation, but that was how his show of wrath made her feel, none the less—validated in her anger.

When she offered no response, he listened. Her breathing had calmed and that slight shivering and settled further still, only the occasion faint tremor wracking her.

Frowning, he tipped his head to peer into her face. Bloody hell. His entire frame sagged beneath her. Of course she'd fallen asleep on him.

Testing just how deeply she'd dozed off so fast, he said, "Sabina?"

She didn't even flinch. The witch in his arms was out cold.

Not wanting to disturb her—he wasn't sure anyone ever needed rest more—he turned minutely. Glancing about the bed, he dragged the pillows toward him and stuffed them between himself and the headboard.

Stretching out his legs, he leaned back just a bit into the cushioning he'd propped behind him. He wasn't going anywhere until she woke up, he might as well at least get some sleep, too.

* * *

"Please," Mother was saying, her voice thin and reedy. "You have to find her. I do not know how long—"

"Do not fear, My Lady." The figure in his fineries bowed deeply. "If there is anyone who can, it is me."

Sabina shook her head, watching the interaction from the corridor. Father was in his alchemy laboratory again, as he spent most days now, Thorfinn was off doing . . . whatever it was useless barbarian boys did with their free time, and she had not seen her sister in _days_. When mother had shooed her from the room to welcome a visitor, the girl could not help that her curiosity would not let her go far. It was highly inappropriate for a woman of her standing to have an audience with a man who was not her husband in her bed chamber! Sabina could only surmise the bizarre circumstance was tied to her sister's strange absence.

Then again, Mother had not left her bed since sometime week before last. Perhaps she could not tend this matter any place but where she was.

"Hurry, sir," Mother urged him.

He nodded and spun on his heel. Sabina ducked into a shadow as the man—notably too glutted on his own sense of importance to seem appealing to a woman of any true taste, she thought—walked to the doors and stepped from the room. Sabina turned her head, her attention following the wizard in the silvery robes. She supposed there must be some noble-blooded witch out there would who would think him . . . _suitable_.

More than just his appearance, Sabina didn't like _him_. There was something unsettling about him; she thought his syrupy demeanor fake. He was putting on airs, that was certain, but what flaws in his personality he was covering, she did not want to guess at.

"Come here, my little bird."

Sabina gave a start and looked toward the doors.

Wincing, she crept closer, poking her head into the room. "How did you know?"

Mother smirked, her wild locks pulled back from her face in a thick braid. The blackness of her hair pulled so tight against her scalp emphasized the colorless pallor of her skin. She patted the bed beside her with a thin hand. "Because you are my daughter as much as you are your father's."

Sabina did as her mother bid her, crossing the floor and climbing up to sit in a delicate maneuver. She'd learned to move gently around Mother.

"Who was that man?"

"He is . . . he is someone I believe is the best suited to do something very important for me."

"This is to do with Helena."

Mother's drawn features creased in a frown. "Yes. I do not know how long . . . ." She let her voice trail off, observing her daughter's face. Sabina sensed that Mother was correcting whatever she meant to say, but she let it be. Whenever her mother did that, it was a means to protect her, she knew. "I do not know how long it might take another to find her. He knows her well, so I must believe that if anyone can locate her in time . . . in a timely fashion, it will be the Baron."

Sabina gave a frown of her own, then. "She is mean to me." She shifted about where she sat, snuggling gingerly against mother's side. "She pulls my hair, and she broke my favorite doll. She never, ever wants to play with me!"

Mother's arms felt impossibly thin as they circled Sabina's shoulders, hugging the girl with as much strength as she could manage.

"Is it odd that I miss her?"

A quiet laugh shook her mother's shoulders. "Oh, no. It is something in the magic of family—of brothers and sisters. One moment, you want to throw them off the nearest battlement, the next you are laughing and sharing a joke. No one knows quite why."

Sabina leaned over in Mother's embrace a bit, tipping her head back to look up at her. "That man will really find her?"

She met her daughter's gaze. "Yes, I believe he will. Though Lord knows, she might never forgive me for entrusting this task to _him_."

"Sabina?"

The girl looked to the door at the sound of Father speaking her name.

He strolled into the room, his hands clasped before him. "You are supposed to be letting your mother rest, my darling. Go visit with your pet for a bit, hmm?"

"Father, you know perfectly well he will not be awake, yet."

Salazar pursed his lips, his green eyes narrowing just a little.

Sabina didn't need to be told twice. She could recognize when they were in need of privacy.

"All right, I shall simply go and . . . watch him sleep." She turned and straightened up just enough to kiss Mother's cheek before she slid off the bed.

Father patted her head as she passed him. Once out in the corridor, however, she could not help but disobey, yet again. She slipped behind the door and pivoted to face into the room.

He smiled at Mother, in spite of the watery sheen in his eyes. He settled beside her, clasping one of her hands between both of his. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, I think. I believe I may even be up to a larger meal than soup for dinner tonight."

Father laughed sadly and shook his head. "You are a terrible liar, my love."

"How is the medicine coming?"

"I actually convinced Godric to help me. It is the _least_ he can do after what his actions have wrought." He nodded, shrugging. "I believe we may have a breakthrough any day now and you will be good as new."

A fragile grin played on Mother's lips. "You are a good liar, but you are still a liar."

He let out a sound Sabina had never heard before. A shuddering breath, as though he was holding back tears. The girl wasn't sure if look in his eyes was love or pain.

Lifting her hand in his, he pressed his forehead lightly down against it. "Please, just let me have this, Rowena. Let me _believe _I can save you."

* * *

Hermione could already feel the fresh tears in the corners of her eyes as she opened them. She forced a gulp down her throat. Shifting to look up, she saw Thorfinn stirring awake with the most grudging expression she'd ever seen.

Okay, so sleep was_ important_ to Vikings. Noted.

Blinking hard a few times, he managed to focus on her face. He heaved a waited sigh, lifting one of his arms from around her to swipe his fingertips beneath her damp eyes.

"What was it this time?" he asked, his voice no more than a low rumble of sound in the quiet of the room.

She opened her mouth to speak, but had to close it, draw in a deep breath and exhale slow before she could try again. "My mother was Rowena Ravenclaw."

His brows pinched together and he nodded. "Oh."

"Oh?" she echoed, shock evident in her voice.

Her shrugged, wincing. "I thought you already knew. The last time you woke up from remembering something, your exact words were 'my mother.'"

Hermione shook her head, unsure how to feel about this particular revelation. When Narcissa Malfoy had said she was the closest thing their corner of the world had to a princess, she had not expected _this_.

She let herself relax, laying back down against him and dropping her cheek to his chest.

"Oh, are we going back to sleep?"

"For now. But in the morning, after breakfast, I'll be leaving for a bit."

He nodded, his chin nudging the top of her head a bit. "Am I accompanying you."

"Not this time. I'm going somewhere you can't risk being seen."

As he'd done earlier, Thorfinn tilted his head to one side to look into her face. "What if I . . . looked like little Malfoy? Just for a few hours."

"Polyjuice potion?"

Her Viking shrugged. "The Malfoys probably have some already prepared somewhere, just waiting for that lock of hair. Any clever pure-blood family would. Given our circumstances, I'd really prefer you not travel alone, and I'm not sure I trust the real little Malfoy to be much use to you."

"Draco is actually quite the skilled wizard."

Thorfinn arched a brow so sharply at her that Hermione could not help but burst out laughing at the expression.

"Don't be jealous. I can appreciate someone's magical talent without having the comment be anything more than that."

His blue eyes narrowed and he uttered a _hmph_ under his breath. "Anyway, where's this little field trip to?"

She tried not to grin. This time, she was completely unsuccessful in ignoring her feelings; she couldn't pretend not to notice the way her heart warmed a little when he didn't deny feeling jealous over her praising Draco.

"Hogwarts," she explained with a nod. "Before I go through the Malfoy's archives, I want to speak to my sister."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Blessedly, Hermione had no more heart-wrenching memories by the time she'd awoken again. Snuggled securely against Thorfinn, she refused to move, only staring toward the window, the lightening of the sky outside faintly visible through the heavy drapes.

She hated that he was so comfortable. Actually, no, she didn't.

Her lips pursed, she tilted her head against his chest to peer up into his sleeping face._ God_, he really was annoyingly pretty. What she hated about the fact that she found him so comfortable was how easy it became to forget the utter weirdness of their circumstances. He was a stranger, and yet he wasn't. She'd known him all of two days, and yet had known him since she was five years old.

Impossible, all of it. And yet, it was real.

She wasn't truly thinking it through as she lifted her hand, stroking the pad of her thumb along his lower lip.

Thorfinn rumbled out a sleepy sound and opened his eyes in a series of quick blinks. "God," he started with a smirk as she went on with that gentle, curious touch. "It's really morning now, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded, snickering softly. "Unfortunately."

His brow furrowed as he watched her expression. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I think I remembered all my mind was going to handle for one night. Dear_ Lord_, it's going to be a rough few weeks, at least, if my memories always hit when I'm sleeping." She pouted, aware how much better rested she'd felt, how quickly soothed she'd been by his familiar presence when she'd awoken. "Don't suppose you'd have any argument about me treating you like an oversized teddy bear?"

A chuckle bubbled out of him. "Oh? You want to use me for nighttime cuddles, that it?"

She shrugged, nodding.

"Oi! I am not just a piece of meat." Yet his admonishment had a tone of teasing to it.

"No, but you are the man my parents thought was good enough for me to marry," she said, once more shrugging.

"Suddenly sold on the whole betrothal business, now, are you?" He sighed, shaking his head. "Admit it, you only want me to warm your bed."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "I'm not 'suddenly sold' on anything, nor am I thinking of you as a bed-warmer, you useless barbarian boy."

He let out a scoffing sound and feigned a look of pain. "That still hurts, you know."

She ignored his silliness. "What I'm saying is even with my patchy memories, there's part of me that recognizes you as a constant, you know? Even though we were kept apart for a time, I've still known you since we were children. There's a sense of—this is going to sound so strange, given our situation—normalcy when you're around. It's comforting when I wake up from some tragic memory and you're there beside me. I won't pretend like I'm completely okay with that, but honestly, I feel like I'm reaching for anything that will help make this not so traumatic."

"So I go from being a bed-warming, oversized teddy bear to being 'anything'? You are shameless, aren't you?"

Again, she found herself laughing and she sat up against him just enough to slap lightly at his chest. "Can you ever stop joking?"

"No, I can't." He shrugged, folding one arm behind his head as he held her gaze. "At least not when you're so serious. You are serious enough for the both of us about seventy-five percent of the time, from what I've observed. If you don't have someone to poke fun through all that, you're going to drive yourself mad."

Just like when he showed jealousy about Draco, her heart warmed as she considered his words. As she considered the look in those familiar blue eyes while he spoke.

"You actually care?"

He frowned and pointedly looked away. "Not answering that."

She breathed a snicker at his petulant tone. "You _do_! You care about me!"

"Oh, shut it, spoiled brat."

"I am not." Oh, he was picking a fight again, she could tell, but she couldn't help snapping back at him.

"You may not be just now, but you certainly were when we were little." His hand slid around the back of her neck and he pulled her close, his breath ghosting over her lips as he said, "And you might be again, in a_ very_ different way, if you ever let me."

She allowed him to hold her there like that for a few heartbeats. "I just might, but maybe we should actually get to know each other a little better, as adults—as the people we are now—before any of that."

He shrugged, nipping at her lips. "We could wait, but . . . what if we do that and we end up hating each other?"

"So, you're saying the reason to let 'things' happen _now_, before we actually know each other, is because if we wait, we might decide we don't like one another enough to do it later?"

"Makes sense to me."

"Of course it does," she said, laughing and shaking her head.

His fingers had slid up into her hair, and he was dragging the tips of his fingernails ever so lightly against her scalp in circles. He watched her eyelids droop, listened to the small rumbling sound in the back of her throat.

"You're evil." Her voice escaped her in a breathless whisper.

"Hello? Death Eater," he answered with a chuckle.

She seemed immobilized by what he was doing—and he wasn't even doing all that much!—and he realized that she probably thought that if she spoke up, he might stop.

He lowered his head, bringing his lips to her throat. Trailing his free hand along her side, he tugged at the hem of her night shirt, just a little, testing if _she_ was going to stop him.

The feel of his mouth skimming her pulse, of his fingers tickling up beneath her shirt to explore her bare skin sent a shiver through her. Pressed to him like this, she was very aware of the way he was setting off a sweet, throbbing little ache between her thighs.

He was right, she realized. It was a bit like she'd explained to Harry. How knowing someone too well could make getting . . . too _familiar_ ruin things. In that respect, the man who was currently slipping his hand upward to cup her breast and teasingly pluck at her nipple was perfect. She knew him, and yet she didn't.

And perhaps this was something she needed in the midst of all this. A few precious moments of mindless bliss, when she didn't have to think on what a chaotic shamble her life had become so quickly—was bound to become even more so as she learned further truths about her past, as those truths would eventually be made public.

"Okay."

He snickered against her ear. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll let you spoil me."

Thorfinn pulled back, leaning into the pillow as he stared up at her. He'd thought for certain she was going to stop them again in just a few minutes as she had back in her Muggle home, so he could not help the caution in his tone as he asked, "You're serious?"

She nodded. "You had a valid point. We're clearly attracted to each other, and if we get to know one another better but don't like what we find, nothing more will come of that."

"Not to defeat my own purpose," he said, rolling over to pin her beneath him, "but there_ is_ something to be said for hate-sex."

"Well, we'll look into that if we end up hating each other in the future. As for right now? I don't quite mind you so much." She smirked when he graced her quip with a chuckle. "And I believe you were about to start spoiling me?"

Thorfinn wasted little time, his mouth capturing hers in a rough kiss as he started undressing her. He became aware, almost instantly, of her hands moving over him to tug at his nightclothes.

Breaking the kiss, he caught her wrists in one hand and pulled her arms up over her head.

"What are you doing?"

He frowned at her and shook his head. "I believe I am supposed to be spoiling you, that means you are not to do a thing."

Her brows shot up. "You're . . . you're serious? You except me to what? Just lie here?"

Well, she really was accustomed to not letting anyone do for her, so to speak, was she?

Once more shaking his head, he snatched up his wand from the bedside table. Pressing her wrists to the base of the headboard, he secured them there with a sticking charm.

"There," he said with a nod as he put the weapon back down and returned his attention to her. He let a sigh rumble out of him as he looked her over. At least he'd gotten her down to her knickers before she started this nonsense. "And I'm not dispelling it until you've been well and truly _spoiled_."

Leaning close again, he started trailing his fingers down her skin—over her breasts, along her sides, tickling across her hips—as he traced her lips with the tip of his tongue. "You may be unaware of this fact, but Viking men take the responsibility, and the honor, of keeping their wives happy _very _seriously."

She struggled to make her expression stern, even as he slipped his fingers into the sides of her knickers and began pulling them down over her thighs. "We are not married, Thorfinn."

He crinkled the bridge of his nose at her as he smiled. "I am aware, thank you. But if someday we ever do decide to commit to that ludicrous betrothal—" as he spoke, he bent her knees up, in turn, removing the undergarment from her and tossing it aside—"we can consider this a sort of test run."

He pressed against her as he lowered his mouth to her throat. The steady feel of his body between her thighs as he kissed a path down her skin, pausing at her breasts to take one nipple into his mouth as he caught the other in rough, teasing pinches had her writhing beneath him.

Thorfinn breathed a snicker against her as he moved lower, still, nipping the soft skin around her navel. "Not any good at not doing anything, are you?"

She jerked her hips, pressing herself more tightly to him. A little shudder coursed through her and she uttered a soft groan in the back of her throat. "Can't help it," she said, her gaze fixed on his as she repeated the action. "I'm not exactly the shrinking violet sort, and you've bound me so this is really all I can do."

"And I'm not moving fast enough for you, is that it?" He lowered his voice to a gravely pitch, aware her own movements against him were making her wet. "Did you just expect me to throw you down and bury my face between your thighs?"

Dear Lord, she thought, he really _did _know what he was doing. Only a few minutes had passed, he'd not even done much of anything, yet that sweet ache crawling through her was already so intense she honestly wanted him to just shag her already and give them both blessed release.

"Maybe something along those lines," she answered, her words spilling out breathless.

"I'm not a fan of rushing." He leaned back from her. Sitting up, he pressed his hand her thighs, working against her rocking motions. "Me? I like the buildup."

"You misunderstand me, Thorfinn." She had to remind herself to breathe with the way he was looking at her, with the way his hand was pressing against her, an escalating rhythm going faster and faster before slowing again, maddeningly bringing her closer to the edge and then easing her back down before she could get there. He really _was _evil. "With what you're . . . with what you're showing me _already_, I think there's nothing more I'd like then for you to take all the time in the world spoiling me rotten, but it occurs to me . . . we're not exactly alone in this house, and we've no idea when our gracious hosts might think to come and wake us."

He winced, pressing hard and she rewarded him with another of those throaty moans of hers. "I hate to say this, but you do have a point. Still not a fan of speed-spoiling, but I'll try anything once."

"Just once?"

A wicked smirk curved Thorfinn's lips as he pulled his hand away and moved back along the bed. "I was referring to the speedy part."

Hermione clamped her lips shut, keeping in a cry of shocked delight as he—just as he said—buried his mouth between her thighs. She wanted to watch him, wanted to see those blue eyes close as he feasted on her, but her head was falling back against the pillow, her eyelids drifting closed of their own volition. He suckled and nipped at her, and her body responded instantly, her hips rocking beneath him once more as delicious shivers ran along her limbs.

He was tempted to tease her more, to pull back and watch her face as he stroked over her with his fingers, but she'd been right. They should save extended fun for when they knew for certain there would be no interruptions.

She felt the brush of fabric against her skin and she opened her eyes a little, only vaguely aware of anything besides Thorfinn's mouth drawing on her. Looking down along her own body, she saw the most lovely sight—he was stripping off his nightclothes and tossing them to the floor while he swirled the tip of his tongue against her. As she thought, his eyes had closed, and he looked absolutely lost in the taste of her.

Again, her breath caught in her throat. This time, it was as the orgasm crashed over her. She managed to keep from screaming, instead his name slipped out in a breathless tumble of sound. Her arms being pinned was infuriating, she wanted to reach for him, to feel her fingers curling in his hair as she came, her taut muscles trembling.

He nursed her through it, slowing that suckling pressure only when it ebbed and he could feel her relax beneath him. He didn't give her the chance to ride out the aftershocks against his tongue.

Pulling back, he shifted to sit on his knees, his eyes again locking with hers. He positioned himself, entering her hard and fast. Still with that orgasm winding out of her, she bit back a scream even as she lifted herself toward him, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

He slipped his hands around her ankles as he thrust his hips, moving into her and withdrawing again and again. Leaning over her, he guided her legs to wrap around him before bracing his palms on either side of her on the mattress.

She struggled to catch her breath as she moved against him, meeting his strokes. "Next time . . . next time, you're _not _pinning me down like this, you hear me?"

A smirk plucked at one corner of his mouth. "Want to touch me that bad, do you?"

Hermione gasped as he quickened his pace, clearly taking the dread of some impending interruption seriously. "Quite frankly, yes." She let her gaze flick down all those lovely muscled lines to where their bodies met. "I like to get 'handsy.'"

"Oh?" he breathed a chuckle with the word, a deep rumbling sound working its way out of the back of his throat. "I'll keep that in mind for the future."

"Slow, spoiling, handsy, sounds like a plan," she said before clamping her lips together. She felt herself tensing all over again, his deep, grinding motions becoming harder, the rhythm turning unsteady and jerking.

He bit hard into his lower lip and dropped his head down as he froze, spending himself while she came.

She had never been more aware of anything in her life than she was of the feel of him sealed tight against her, of the way her body gripped tight around him as tremors wracked them both.

He lowered to balance his weight on his elbows, laying lightly against her while they caught their breath as that blissful spiraling ebbed.

For a long while, she only listened to the deep rumbling of the inhalations in his chest. She was content not to move, even as her body quivered a little, alerting her to the fact that he'd not withdrawn, yet.

He lazily reached over, grabbing up his wand for just long enough to dispel the sticking charm. After setting it aside, again, he looked at her very seriously.

"What?" she asked, her eyelids sweeping down in slow, drowsy blinks as her breathing started to even out.

Thorfinn shrugged. He eased himself out of her and turned to lay on his back. "I was just thinking . . . we could probably do with more sleep."

Hermione ran through in her head all the things that she had to do, all the things she could think to do. Meeting his gaze, she nodded. "Actually, more sleep sounds amazing."

She pressed herself into his side, dropping her head against the hollow of his shoulder as he pulled the quilt up over them, hiding them almost completely from view of anyone who might open the door.

* * *

Narcissa stepped back, pulling the door closed with a wince on her delicate features. "They're still sleeping. We should let them be," she said with a nod.

She turned on her heel and started leading her family back down the corridor toward the staircase. It was time for breakfast, but she would imagine they needed the rest, even as she pretended she hadn't seen their nightclothes strewn across the floor and the pair in the bed, snuggled up together as they were, both snoring deeply, like they were recovering from some . . . strenuous activity.

Draco might have predicted it, but she was_ far_ too much of a lady to let on that he'd been right.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"I don't mind telling you," Lucius said with a shake of his head, "I believe this is a terrible idea."

"Well, with all due respect, Mr. Malfoy, I'm not really asking for your—"

"_Ow! Bloody Viking thug!"_

"_If you'd only held still, you daft little man!"_

Hermione's brows shot up and she barely held back a wince as her gaze darted from one parent of the 'daft little man' to the other, and back. Thorfinn really had exquisite timing, didn't he? Even when he wasn't in the room the know how serious the tone had gotten.

"While we're on the topic of things we don't mind telling you," Narcissa tacked on, as though the younger witch's statement hadn't been interrupted, entirely, "I would very much appreciate it if you and your betrothed could stop torturing Draco while you're here."

Hermione frowned, shrugging. "If he'd only cooperated when we made it clear we simply needed a lock of his hair, whatever the hell just happened out there wouldn't have been necessary."

When the pair had joined the family a few moments ago—though they were both suspicious about the glances Narcissa kept stealing at each of them as they helped themselves to the tray of food and coffee the housekeeper had brought them in the study—they had shared with the Malfoys Hermione's desire to speak with her sister, or, more appropriately, her sister's ghost. Given Thorfinn's very obvious protective behavior toward her, Mr. Malfoy had inquired as to how he intended to travel with her when he was currently sort of high up there on the Undesirables list. This had prompted Hermione to ask about the family's potion stores as Thorfinn turned to look pointedly at Draco.

At which time, Draco had excused himself from the room in something of a hurry, and Thorfinn had let out a particularly hearty chuckle before rising from his seat to follow.

Now, the two young men came trooping back into the room. Draco scowled as he rubbed at the back of his head, and Thorfinn was beaming—rather like a hunter proud of taking down his prey, Hermione thought—as he waved a silvery blond lock in the air.

"You could've asked," Draco grumbled as he took a seat on the chaise next to his mother.

Thorfinn shrugged lazily and he reclaimed his place beside Hermione on the sofa. "And you could've _not _run away. I's just a lock of hair, mate."

"As I was saying, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione repeated as she and the elder Malfoys returned their previous discussion, "I'm not really asking for your permission. In the understanding that we are working together in this, I am keeping you in the loop on what I plan to do, no more, no less. And because Thorfinn still remembers more of our past than I do, having him with me when I speak with Helena will be helpful—I don't know if she's still holding a grudge, I wouldn't know otherwise if she might try to lie to me about something I've not remembered, yet. And as he can only go as someone not currently wanted by the Ministry, I thought he could employ the same tactic Barty Crouch, Jr. used when he'd been masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody. You do have a stock of ready-made potion—as Thorfinn suggested, 'just waiting for the hair'—he'd simply have to put it in a flask and take sips when no one is looking."

"While it is a comfort to know you have thought this through to some degree, I still believe it an unwise move."

Lucius' words of caution drew a sigh out of Hermione. "No one outside this room knows I've remembered who I really am, and if Dumbledore truly believed my remembering was a threat to Gryffindor's legacy, he wouldn't have told anyone. It would've been too risky. On his own side there'd have been too many questions about why it was so important to keep me . . . blind, for lack of a better term, because if everything the Wizarding world had been taught about Hogwarts' founders was true, then my memories would only confirm that, wouldn't they? And from the Dark, well, if the information about who I really was somehow reached them—as such leaks are hardly unheard of—he couldn't know if they would also see me as a threat and try to kill me, or try to break the charms, themselves, with the natural assumption that as Salazar's daughter, of _course_ I'd take up their cause." She sneaked a sip of her coffee, dampening her suddenly and mysteriously parched throat. "Regardless of whether he thought the biggest threat would be from the opposing side, or his own, I think it's clear that he believed my secret was too dangerous to share with _anyone_."

"That suggests that he wasn't acting out of some blind faith and devotion to Gryffindor's legacy, but that he knew there was a cover-up." Draco frowned, to his credit seeming unsettled by the entire scenario. "That he didn't do what he did to you to protect Gryffindor's legacy because he felt it was true, but that he was aware it_ wasn't_ and was knowingly trying to protect the cover-up."

"I . . . ." Now it was Hermione's turn to frown. "I hadn't meant to suggest that. I really want to believe that Dumbledore thought all the great things about Uncle Godric that everyone's been taught _were _true, and—"

"You just said Uncle Godric."

Hermione breathed in a quick, shuddering gasp at Thorfinn's interruption. Swallowing hard, she turned and caught his gaze before looking to each of the Malfoys, in turn. "I did?"

They all nodded, and it hurt her heart that they _all _looked terribly sad for her. "I . . . I suppose that makes sense. He was close with my parents for so long before my mother's illness. Even while Mother was sick, Father had convinced Godric to help find a cure because it was his fault anyway and the least he could do for them, and I was sent away not long after." She could feel herself staring about, her eyes watering a bit, but she couldn't really see anything. Her lips trembled, and she folded them inward for a few heartbeats before she could force herself to continue. "If they were that close when I was a child, and their schism was only starting shortly before the end of my time with them, then it would make sense that I referred to him that way."

Everyone was quiet, and Hermione couldn't say she blamed them for not knowing what to say. Even Thorfinn, with his penchant for keeping her from getting too mired in dark and weighty thoughts, seemed at a loss for what words would best fill the void.

"I really want to believe," Hermione repeated in a low voice, pausing to clear her throat, "that Dumbledore thought all the great things about Godric Gryffindor that everyone's been taught are true. But who really knows? He was a man of many secrets; I'm certain there are more than a few he took to his grave that will forever remain with him. All that being said, I don't believe anyone in the castle currently poses a threat to me."

"What about Dumbledore's portrait?" Draco wasn't sure how, but he was going to get Rowle back for that hair-pulling mess just now. "D' you think he might recognize that the charms on you have broken?"

"No, I don't. The Portraits _are_ a copy of the people they represent, but it would not be possessed of his true depth of knowledge, or his full faculties. If I do end up in the portrait's presence, then as long as I don't do anything to raise his suspicions, or to suggest anything about me has changed, I believe he'll assume that what the real Dumbledore did still holds. As far as he was aware when he was alive, he's the only one who could know the truth about me, therefore, his portrait will be under the same assumption. I've thought about this. Really."

"Perhaps that's true, but it still seems like a risk." Narcissa was obviously not pleased with this plan, and while Hermione was touched that the Malfoys were expressing concern over her safety—they could simply act out of duty to her father's true agenda, but the feeling she got from them was more parent-like, which was wildly comforting in a strange way, given her current lack of 'real' parents—there was no way to proceed if they were set on protecting her from the world.

"Of course it's a risk, but really the most that might happen is Helena starts talking about her sister being alive. People will think the Grey Lady's gone 'round the bend, since there's no record of her having a sister, and how could any _human _possibly be alive after a thousand years without the Elixir of Life? Given that the destruction of the Sorcerer's Stone was made public knowledge, the Elixir is now the stuff of history books, just like the Stone. Helena doesn't know my Muggle name, I always avoided Ravenclaw Tower when I was a student, and . . . ." Hermione's brow furrowed as her voice trailed off.

The room's other occupants exchanged a worried glance.

"And?" Thorfinn echoed, reaching over to clasp his large, warm hand around one of hers.

Meeting his gaze, the witch chewed at her lower lip a moment before answering. "It's nothing really, I just realized something. I was all over that castle while I was a student there, even the places that were declared off-limits—"

"Yet, somehow, _I _was always the one getting in trouble with the professors. Unbelievable."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Draco. "Yes, well, maybe that had less to do with following rules and more to do with your unbearable arrogance."

He smirked. "We all have to excel at something."

She graced him with a snicker. "What I was saying was that somehow, even with all the places I've been to in that castle, never once did I have cause, or desire, to visit Ravenclaw Tower. Someone with my curiosity? You'd figure there wouldn't be a place in the castle I wouldn't want to at least see. Provided I wouldn't get expelled had I been caught there, of course."

Lucius pursed his lips in thought as he nodded. "Given what we know of your heritage, I would not be terribly surprised if there was a reason for that. If you'd been left to your own devices, even without your memories some part of you might've driven you to seek out the tower, the very location where your sister's ghost dwells, and in the early years of your attendance as a student, she no doubt would've recognized you given that you were not very much older than when last she'd seen you. A thousand years is nothing to a ghost, after all."

Hermione felt her stomach flip a little. "You're suggesting Dumbledore wove a compulsion to avoid the tower into the magic when he reinforced my father's charm?"

"At this point, very little would surprise me when it comes to what that man might've done to ensure you would _stay _Hermione Granger."

Sighing, she dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. Harry. She'd have to break all of this to Harry before anyone else outside of this room, she knew that. He'd already had some of the unhealthy hero-worship he'd felt toward Albus Dumbledore stripped away in learning all he had about the elder wizard and his plans—and just how far he'd go to achieve his goals—but Harry clearly still respected him. She wasn't sure how he'd take the news, making Harry one of the reasons she needed hard evidence. As bizarre as her story was, she was sure he'd believe _her _. . . until he heard that the Malfoys and a confirmed Death Eater were her allies in uncovering 'the truth.' Then he'd need a little more convincing.

And the Weasleys were so faithful to Dumbledore's cause, so steadfast in their beliefs about _anything _Slytherin-related. She was starting to think once this news went public, not only would there be upheaval in Wizarding Britain, but Ron would suddenly be unspeakably grateful she'd never slept with him, because . . . Slytherin cooties, whatever. She adored the Weasley clan, but they could be _very_ bullheaded; they could deliberately refuse to believe truths that were right in front of their eyes with the best of them.

She loved them, but the words _cognitive dissonance_ should be etched onto their family crest—ironically, just like all but the three Death Eaters sitting in the room with her, and the bulk of non-blood-traitor pure-bloods. There was a chance none of them would accept that Godric was not the saint they wanted him to be.

That Salazar was not the demon they _needed_ him to be.

And somehow, because she would be the one who caused them to even think that might be questioned, she'd be to blame. That's how bullheaded believers could be, no matter how good at heart they usually were.

"Okay, I'll ask." Draco shrugged. "You and I were never exactly friends. How are you going to explain away the two of us just happening to want to take a tour through Hogwarts _together?"_

* * *

"I must admit, I was surprised to get your owl this morning," Professor McGonagall—now Headmistress of the school, though her title wouldn't truly go into effect until classes began on 1st of September—said as she greeted Hermione and 'Draco' at the boundary of the castle grounds. The elder witch made no attempt to hide how her gaze slipped over her favorite former student's traveling companion in question. "Mostly on account of with whom you said you'd arrive."

Hermione and the fake Draco Malfoy exchanged a glance. He'd opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione immediately gave him a quelling look. Even if no one else would immediately recognize Thorfinn Rowle's voice upon hearing it, a gravely baritone issuing forth from Draco Malfoy's lips instead of his usual silky, dulcet tone was likely to raise a few eyebrows.

Forcing out a raspy sound, he touched a hand to his throat and looked at McGonagall, wincing.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you quite all right?"

"He's got a cold, I'm afraid. His voice has been just awful." Hermione nodded toward the castle—still under restoration magic—and they all began walking up the path toward the bridge. With any luck, they could avoid an actual sit-down in the Headmaster's office, and she would not have to worry that she might've been wrong about just how much Dumbledore's portrait could pick up on about her recent changes. "I thought it was better to explain our situation in person."

"Yes," McGonagall said with a nod of her own. "It usually is."

The young woman nearly stumbled over her own two feet as she realized what Minerva McGonagall's tone insinuated. She thought—she _actually _thought—that Hermione and Draco were dating! That was impossi—oh, well, okay, given that Hermione was in something of an unofficial relationship with a Death Eater to whom she'd been promised in marriage a thousand years ago, she supposed dating the Malfoy heir probably wasn't really all that far-fetched.

"Well, we ran into each other at the bookshop the other day, and realized we were both researching the same subject. Hogwarts." Hermione shrugged. She'd only briefly laid out for Thorfinn what their cover story was, so it really did suit her plan best that he had an excuse to not offer a single word into the conversation. "I was thinking to write a memoir, you know, my times as a student, what I went through during the war. I thought it might help some people to better understand how terribly the Muggleborns were really being treated. It turned out he was thinking the same thing, only . . . his motivation was to help people understand how some who—despite their beliefs—might not have wanted to support Voldemort ended up serving him. Like himself and his mother. The Malfoys may not be the upstanding citizens of Wizarding Britain the world once believed they were, but even I can see they're far more maligned than they really deserve."

As she spoke, Hermione realized they weren't simply empty words. She honestly felt that, especially now that she'd gotten to know them. She'd heard, since War's End, how people in Wizarding London spoke of the Malfoys. Not even in hushed tones, like most gossip. They openly called the family wretched for following Voldemort in the first place, horrible for rejoining his cause when he reappeared after the Triwizard Tournament, cowards for ultimately betraying him and crossing battle lines. No decision they'd ever made had been the correct one, according to the popular opinion. It seemed no matter what the family did, their escaping a sentence in Azkaban only left them to be scapegoats for all the negative emotions left in the War's wake. Really, when thinking on it like that, Hermione thought it no wonder the Malfoys barely set foot off Manor grounds lately.

Oh, God. She felt sorry for them.

Clearing her throat and giving her head a shake, Hermione went on. "I realized that a lot of people might not care for what a Malfoy has to say these days, especially if it might make them feel sympathetic. So, I thought we could combine our accounts. Telling two sides of the story." It also occurred to her that the notion she'd come up with as a mere cover story was actually brilliant. If she didn't get herself murdered trying to prove her father wasn't a villain, she should actually discuss the idea with Draco. "But we also realized that perhaps before we do any bit of reminiscing on paper, we should come back. Sit in Great Hall, wander the corridors. Stand before the entrances of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Towers. Maybe pop down to the Dungeons so Draco can lounge in the Slytherin common room a moment, that sort of thing."

The Headmistress smirked, one eyebrow arching upward ever so slightly. "And perhaps pop through the kitchen and grab a bite of something on your way to the Hufflepuff Basement, hmm?"

Hermione feigned an affronted gasp before laughing. "I wasn't thinking that, but you do remind me why you were always my favorite teacher!"

It was with a warm grin that Professor Minerva McGonagall parted ways with the pair in the entrance hall, back to her office to tend to yet more paperwork in preparation for September. Hermione watched the woman go, her heart light to see that even with her new perspective, she still felt the same toward the elder witch. She knew—she knew in her heart—that had Minerva McGonagall been aware of Albus' treachery, regardless of his motives, she'd not have supported it. There was a reason that as much as he trusted her, he had kept things from her.

As Hermione turned to start for another staircase that—from the way it was moving—seemed most likely to take them directly to Ravenclaw Tower—she found 'Draco' scowling at her.

The uncanny expression actually caused her to jump a little. "Good God," she said in a whisper before darting her gaze about. Thank the Lord she had brought someone with her. The castle was quite intimidating when it was so empty. She was also mildly impressed. "You really have gotten your Malfoy impressions down-pat, haven't you?"

At her question, that trademark Malfoy scowl turned into an unhappy visage that was entirely Thorfinn Rowle. "What did you think you were doing? Mentioning that you wanted to go to Ravenclaw Tower like that?"

Hermione's brows pinched together, and her lips folded inward, but try as she might, she could not hold back a laugh.

His expression darkened.

"I'm sorry," she said, despite that her apology was edged by amusement. "It's just hearing your voice come out of Draco Malfoy is . . . oh, it's just so wrong."

"Yes?" He paused, glancing around before he slipped the silver flask from inside his robes and took a quick sip. Cringing at the taste—something for which she did not envy him, as her memory of the taste brought that entire half-cat fiasco from second year screaming to mind—he put it back before going on. "Well, get used to it. Answer the ruddy question."

Allowing herself a moment, and a few steadying breaths, to sober up as they began climbing the staircase, she spoke. "The mention was deliberate. I was trying to gauge her reaction."

"Oh," he said, barely refraining from slapping his forehead. Draco's form was decidedly more delicate than his own, Thorfinn wasn't sure if he'd end up hurting himself. "I see."

"She had no reaction to it. If she'd known about the charms, she'd have to wonder if my appearance here following the War was because Voldemort's death had unlocked my memory—just as Dumbledore feared it might, even with all those extra layers of magical protection he cast. I _thought _she didn't know anything about this entire mess, and I desperately wanted to believe she wouldn't have a thing to do with it, but now I _know _for certain."

He couldn't help noticing the gentle smile that curved her lips as she talked. "You really have a soft spot for the old woman, don't you?"

Hermione shrugged. "I do. She's probably the strongest woman I know. Well, aside from my birth mother, and now Narcissa Malfoy. I've always admired her, I'd have been devastated if she'd had any sort of response other than the one she'd given."

All too soon, it seemed, they were at the floor before Ravenclaw Tower. She felt glued to the landing as they stepped onto it.

Thorfinn-as-Draco—which she now realized looked a bit odd walking, because Draco Malfoy had, of course, a gait that suited his lean stature, while Thorfinn had a stride that matched the fact that he was both taller and broader, so Draco appeared to amble about like his body was too light for him—was already starting through the corridor when he stopped short, realizing she wasn't beside him.

Sighing, he turned and looked at her. "C'mon. She won't bite. Can't, really, seeing as, you know, ghost and all."

A half-smile curved her lips. There he went again, being silly for the sole purpose of making her feel a tiny bit better. And damn him that it worked.

Nodding, she let out a breath and forced herself to step over to where he was. She fell into step beside him.

After a few moments of walking in silence, he said, "This whole big, silent castle. Makes me want to drag you off into a dark corridor."

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, what? You're afraid the ghosts might tattle on us?"

She scoffed. "How quickly you forget." Halting mid-stride, she turned to face him. "Do you really want to have me in some dark little castle nook, making all those same sounds and expressions I made this morning . . . while you look as you do_ right_ now?"

Immediately he scowled, and it was all she could do not to let out another laugh at the resemblance. "No, no, you're absolutely correct, I'd rather not do that."

Nodding, she playfully slapped his arse and started walking again. "C'mon then, the sooner we get this done, the sooner you can stop nursing that flask."

"Oy," he said, trailing after her. "So, wait . . . who's got the better bum?"

She shook her head, her eyes closing in a pained expression. "You're not seriously asking me that."

Thorfinn-Draco shrugged. "Well, can't help being curious."

"You're so odd." A chill ran through her as they turned the bend and came into very-near view of the Tower entrance. She stopped, aware that this entire time, she'd been letting his presence distract her from how different the castle felt now that she had different, older memories of it. "We're here."

"How do you want to do this?"

"I don't know, not exactly. I suppose I'll just try talking to her. Maybe she's somewhere near enough to hear me?"

"Do you want me to just stay ba—?" Her hand on his wrist cut off his words and stopped him mid-backpedal.

"You stay right where you bloody are," she said in a hissing whisper. Hermione raised her voice a bit before she called out. "Helena? Helena Ravenclaw?"

Nothing.

Shaking her head, she tried again—after all, the last time Helena had heard her voice, she'd been a child, she had not sounded as she did now. "Helena? Helena!" She stamped her foot as she could just barely remember doing often when they'd argued as children. "You come out here and speak to me this instant! I never told Mother it was you who broke her favorite vase. The least you could do is comes speak to me!"

He turned a wide-eyed look on her. Hermione was wide-eyed, too. She met his bewildered gaze with a shrug. That particular memory had come out of nowhere. She'd considered it before, but perhaps behaving as she recalled Sabina behaving could trigger slips of memory like that. Of course, she should really wait until she was in private, then, before throwing any temper tantrums.

"Sabina?"

Hermione wasn't ashamed to admit she nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice behind her. Pivoting on her heel, she came face-to-face with the Grey Lady, herself.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Hermione wasn't sure what to say, or even how she felt, seeing her sister's ghost before her. They only stared at each other for a few heartbeats, making her certain Helena was just as unsure of the situation as she was.

The Grey Lady's eyes—as translucent as the rest of her in the afternoon light streaming through the nearby window—at last moved from the living, breathing, witch's eyes to sweep over her, head to toe. Her jaw fell open and while Hermione knew ghosts didn't breathe, not really, a startled breath escaped Helena's lips all the same.

"I . . . I don't understand. How . . . how are you here? So much time . . . ." Helena drifted backward a bit as she went from speaking to Hermione, directly, to muttering to herself.

Hermione's heart wrenched in the chest to see the poor ghost so confused. For a few chilling seconds, she wondered if the centuries of guilt and fear and her tragic, untimely death had driven the specter of Helena Ravenclaw slightly mad.

"After—" Hermione wet her suddenly parched lips with the tip of her tongue and tried again, her gaze never once leaving the distraught, gossamer face of her sister. "After your murder, mother, well, you already know, I think, Mother succumbed to her illness, right?" Hermione honestly had no idea how much of their family history Helena knew of after her own death. It was just another thing that hadn't stirred her interest enough to ask Harry about, even after he'd confided in her and Ron that he'd sought out Helena Ravenclaw to find Rowena's diadem.

Oh, the diadem! A family heirloom she hadn't even known of until now,_ after_ it had been defiled by Tom Riddle and then destroyed by Harry. She didn't blame Harry for destroying it, but she very much blamed Tom Riddle—that snake-faced bastard, Voldemort—for desecrating her mother's diadem in the first place. If not for that, Harry wouldn't have had to destroy it. Mother's diadem, father's locket—her locket, Sabina's locket!—Uncle Godric's sword, Auntie Helga's cup. She wondered if they'd known one day their rivalry and the twisted covering of the truth would give rise to a creature like Voldemort, would that have changed anything?

It was all a moot point now, but still, Hermione understood that her lack of curiosity about what Harry and Helena had discussed during the Battle of Hogwarts was just another example of how powerful the magic deterring her from finding out who she truly was had been. It hadn't even occurred to her to wonder why she, lover of history that she was, couldn't bring herself to care about anything connected to Ravenclaw.

She'd not even felt appropriately insulted that someone as clever as she hadn't been sorted into Ravenclaw!

Oh, it was infuriating. But she had not realized she'd lapsed into silence as she stared at her sister, mulling all this over in her head. And noticing belatedly that she'd not only thought of Helga Hufflepuff as Auntie Helga, but that she'd—once again—thought of that traitorous man Godric Gryffindor as 'Uncle.' There was still so much to this story that she didn't know.

But she could hardly say she was surprised when her sister misinterpreted the reason behind her silence.

Helena folded her lips inward, nodding sharply before she managed to speak. "Is that what this is then, hmm? However it is you are here, you have come to gloat that you finally had our mother to yourself before she died?"

Hermione let out a short, harsh breath, covering her heart with her hand. As though she was once again that child longing to best her sister even as she desired said sister's love and attention, Helena's acidic words cut through her. But instead of the anger she might've felt when she'd been that child, now Hermione only felt a lonely, miserable ache in the center of her chest. "What? No, Helena, please. Nothing of the sort! I promise you! I was only quiet because I was thinking over how angry I am about what's happened to me!"

There was a suspicious glimmer in the ghost's eyes and her lips trembled a little. "Oh, of course. Pardon me as I sit and listen to another ode from the world according to Sabina Slytherin! Even coming to see me after I thought you dead for so long, and it is still all _about you,_ is it not?!"

"No, no! It's not—"

"I know I was wrong, but I did not deserve to be murdered. I died as a result of our mother sending after me the one person in the world who could find me because he was a love-obsessed lunatic. He was an awful creature who refused to take no for an answer, and all you can think of is you? Honestly? I see a grown woman before me, yet what I hear are the words of a child!"

Hermione uttered a little growling rumble under her breath, that ache of misery dulled for a moment by a sudden rush of irritation. "I was only remembering when my friend Harry came to you about Mother's diadem, and then I thought how terrible it was that Harry had to destroy it, but he'd never have had to do that if Tom Riddle hadn't stolen it and dirtied it up in the first place, and there's no _un_-Horcrux'ing something, so there was nothing to be done for it after that. I don't blame you for stealing Mother's diadem—you were hurt and angry and acted rashly, but we all make mistakes, and it's okay! I'm angry now and you are not any single one of the reasons for my anger. Tom fucking Riddle, the same bastard who tricked you into telling him where the diadem was hidden stole my Basilisk! _My _Basilisk! Just took him and used him and then he was dead before I could even remember him! And my whole life was taken away! My sister, my mother, my father, my pet! Everything! A thousand years passed and I was kept unaware, blind to who I am so I could be carved into a weapon for someone else's use."

Hermione's lips quivered and she forced a gulp down her throat, forcing herself to go on in a shaky voice. "All I wanted was something familiar! I wanted to come here and see you and tell you things and just hear your voice again and I'm sorry I was always so miserable to you, but you were miserable to me, too, and I want to bring Tom Riddle back from the dead so I can kick him right in the bollocks for taking things he had no right to! I want to spit on the grave of a man I once held in highest esteem for_ stealing_ who I am from me!" She finished with another stamp of her heel, eyes watering, her hands balled into trembling fists at her sides and the ends of her wild hair literally sparking with her anger and frustration and sadness.

Thorfinn-as-Draco blinked, his wide-eyed gaze moving from one sister to the other, and back as Hermione caught her breath in shivering little gulps of air. He had no idea what to do about the sisterly fight breaking out. He was vaguely surprised that even in her tirade, she'd been mindful not to speak Dumbledore's name. No matter what other whispered or distant words might be glossed over by the other ghosts or any portraits near enough to overhear, the mention of prized Gryffindor student Hermione Granger wanting to go spit on his grave would've brought them trouble, for certain.

Helena shook her head, her gaze again moving over Hermione. "A thousand years?" Her voice was pitched low, barely a thread of sound against the air of the castle as she shook her head. Out of everything her sister had said, that was the thing that truly stood out to her—what a dreadful stretch of centuries she'd been alone. "Has it really be so long?"

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded. Somehow, she forced herself to speak around the lump forming in her throat. "Yes. After . . . after mother passed, my father put me under a special stasis charm to protect me from her illness, hoping I'd outlast the curse. That's how I'm here now. I don't remember much, but it's coming back to me slowly. Once I remembered you, I knew I had to come see you."

"For what purpose?" Helena's voice had lost its venom, replaced her boundless loneliness and simple, inescapable curiosity.

A mirthless smile played on Hermione's lips a moment and she didn't bother to wipe at the tear that broke free of her lashes. "You're my sister. I missed you."

Helena sniffled, darting her gaze toward the ceiling as she waved a dismissive hand. "Rubbish."

"It's true. I even told Mother. After . . . ." Hermione drew in a deep, shivering breath and continued. "After she summoned the Baron to go find you, I told her that I sometimes hated you, but I missed you. I was worried for you. She didn't want to send him, but she didn't know what else to do! She was desperate to have one last moment with you before she died."

If Thorfinn had any question about whether or not ghosts could shed tears, they were answered as shimmering, cloudy droplets fell from Helena's cheeks, hitting the floor to splash up noiselessly and vanish into a puff of misty air.

"Why? Why would she have wanted me when she still had you?"

Hermione thought she understood, now. Her throat tight with tears as she looked at her sister, she knew—at least she hoped she knew—that Helena was stuck here, trapped as the Grey Lady, Ghost of Ravenclaw Tower because of this. Because she was so tormented by the thought of their mother dying in despair over Helena's betrayal, unable to forgive her elder daughter even upon her death bed.

That even Helena's own murder had not been something to bring peace between them.

"It was never a question of you or me for her! She was our mother, and she was a_ wonderful_ mother!" Hermione still only had those fragments of memory she'd recalled in her sleep to fall back on about their mother's demeanor toward her daughters, but it had been enough. Those fragments filled her with such a mix of joy and pain that she knew Rowena Ravenclaw had been amazing to each of them, and that as strong as she'd tried to be for her father even at such a tender age, the loss of her mother had shattered Sabina as surely as it had crippled Salazar. "She loved us both. And my father doted on you, don't pretend he didn't!"

Helena set her jaw and rolled her eyes but couldn't work up a denial to that assertion. She could grudgingly admit to herself that yes, Salazar had tried to include her as part of his family, had tried to make her feel like she could be his daughter, but she'd been too stubborn, to angry at her own lost father who'd never been particularly loving to allow such kindness into her heart. She _could _admit it to herself, but she certainly would not admit it aloud.

"I wanted to see you, because I missed you," Hermione repeated, nodding as she forced a sniffle of her own. "But I needed to see you to tell you . . . while mother was afraid that you would never forgive her for sending the Baron for you, she forgave_ you_."

A strangled sob escaped Helena's lips and she clasped her hands before her, seeming not to know what to do with herself. "She did?"

Hermione felt the press of Thorfinn-Draco's hand on the small of her back, steadying her—she hadn't realized until his touch that she'd been sagging a bit, folding in on herself, and she immediately straightened up. She'd almost forgotten it wasn't only her and Helena here just now.

"Yes," the living witch said in a hushed tumble of sound. "For everything. For leaving us, for stealing the diadem. . . . For thinking she didn't love you. Mother loved you _so_ much, her heart broke for trying to hold it all, and she forgave you."

Helena's legs went out from under her and she gracelessly hit the floor, appearing to gasp for air as she pressed her clasped hands over her heart. "She did?" she said again, her disbelief rending her unaware that she was echoing her own question from only a handful of heartbeats earlier. This was breathtakingly wonderful. A weight off—as though she'd been wandering about with a stone tied 'round her neck, wearing it so long she'd not noticed the burden of its weight until it had been removed.

She _knew _she'd longed for her mother's forgiveness, but she'd never expected to receive it.

Never expected to see Sabina again. That, too, was a weight off she had not realized she'd carried with her all this time.

Hermione settled on the cold stone floor before her sister, looking into the ghost's melancholy face. There was no escaping the notice that Helena's eyes had brightened with her relief, a light filling the misty slate gaze that had not been there before. "Yes. And I forgive you, too."

Letting out a scoffing sound, Helena gathered herself enough to wipe at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Oh? And what, precisely do you have to forgive me for?"

A smirk curved Hermione's lips. "Isn't it obvious? For always being such a _wretch_!"

Helena burst out in laughter, the sound like the chime of bells ringing through the stone corridor and bouncing lightly back down from the high, vaulted ceiling. "As if you were not one, yourself?"

Thorfinn relaxed a bit now that he was sure the Grey Lady wasn't going to try to any . . . . nefarious ghostly things to kill them, curse or possess them. Not that he was certain the first two options were possible, but he was sure the third was a doozy, and he wasn't looking to test _any _of them. At his sigh, Helena looked up, seeming to notice him for the first time.

Her mouth turned upward in a sneer as stared at him a moment, and he jumped a little to find the specter's attention on him. Turning her gave back to her sister, she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Dear Lord. Are you really being accompanied about by a Malfoy?"

Hermione's brows shot up and she failed at an attempt to hold back a laugh. Thorfinn, for his part, slipped that flask free and took an unhappy swig, clearly wishing the container held something_ other_ than Polyjuice potion. She supposed the distinctive Malfoy colouring—which was basically hardly any, at all—really was a strong familial trait if Helena could recognize a grey-eyed platinum blond pure-blood wizard on-sight as being a Malfoy.

"Well, I suppose that is sort of what this looks like, yes."

Helena's features pulled into a calculating look that actually brought to light the Ravenclaw family resemblance a moment in that Thorfinn could finally see how the sisters looked alike. "Sort of? What do you mean 'sort of'? Oh, Circe, tell me that is not your husband!"

Hermione and Thorfinn-Draco both erupted into laughter then, and Helena looked quite taken aback to hear a booming chuckle tear out of Draco Malfoy's slender throat.

"I demand to know what is so very funny," the disgruntled spirit said with a frown. "You are of marrying age, and your betrothed was left back with the rest of the family, was he not?"

Thorfinn winced, and Hermione was a little startled to realize that she was mirroring his expression. Nodding, she patted what would be her sister's knee—making a gesture in which she aimed for the air just above, so that she did not embarrassingly fumble and slap her hand against the ground, instead. "Oh, oh, Helena, there's so much I have to tell you! Wait."

Helena eyed her sister as this grown woman Sabina who sat before her leaned near and waved her close. She inclined her body and tipped her head toward the living witch, curious in spite of herself.

Hermione cupped her hand against her sister's ephemeral ear and spoke in a murmur, "Can you keep a secret?"

The ghost snapped backward a bit, visibly affronted that Sabina had to ask! Helena was the one who'd taught_ her _the importance of keeping something to oneself, after all! "I beg your pardon? Who was the one who did not tell that useless barbarian boy of yours that you were the one who hid his sword the day of his father's hunt? Remember how much trouble he got into with the Jarl for that? And I did not make a peep!"

Hermione's eyes went wide and she clamped her hands over her mouth at the same time as the visage of Draco Malfoy went wide-eyed and Thorfinn Rowle's voice tore from his throat as he bellowed, "_What?!"_

Cringing, Hermione let her fingers slip from her lips as she met Thorfinn-Draco's hilariously angry gaze—of course, she was not about to let on to Thorfinn that him so very irate-looking whilst in Draco's body was quite the amusing sight to behold. "Okay, so there are some things I still haven't remembered, just yet."

Shaking his head, he huffed out a breath and folded his arms across his chest. Pivoting on his heel, he put his back to the sisters, giving them some semblance of privacy.

"Touchy your Malfoy, hmm?" Helena said in a low voice as she once more leaned close to her sister. "Now, what is all this 'so much' you have to tell me?' Spare no details!"

Hermione smiled, wide and genuine, her heart warmed so deeply at being able to help her sister put a literal millennium of hurt feelings and wounded pride behind her that she wasn't sure there were words to do the light, blissful sensation justice.

"Spoken like the witch who taught me the importance of secrets_ and_ gossip."

Instead, she focused on filling Helena in on everything that had happened to her, everything that she'd learned in the past few days, alone. There was hope that Helena could fill in some blanks, certainly, about this strange, strained love-hate dynamic between her father and Godric Gryffindor, but now as she began her tale, starting from the moment Voldemort had fallen in battle—with her sister reacting to it all just as Hermione imagined she'd have done, herself—she knew.

Hermione _knew _that this reunion neither of them should've been able to hope for was important for a reason all its own that had nothing to do with a bitter and ugly hidden history.

* * *

Some hours later, Hermione and the form of Draco Malfoy left the castle. She'd not learned much more of her past than she'd already known since Helena had her own life to deal with at the time, and had been caught up with schooling and suitors she _actually_ desired—known of whom were the Baron, of course—which meant she had not paid much attention to the goings-on of the adults around her. She had mentioned, however, that she had the feeling that the motivation behind Godric and Salazar's friendship souring might've been something more, yet something pettier, than their disagreements over the running of Hogwarts. Something woefully less important in the grand scheme of things than an initiative to change the how Wizarding Britain was governed, yet still powerful enough to have ultimately cost their mother's life.

Smaller, yet bigger at the same time? Hermione had no idea what that could be. Perhaps those archived journals of the Malfoy ancestors could shed more light, especially now that she had an idea what to look for. They might also, she hoped, give an indication as to where some hard evidence of Godric's betrayal of her parents might still exist.

The true bright point of her visit, however, had been realizing that her words of their mother's forgiveness had indeed released her sister from her torment and imprisonment. She lingered, still, at the castle in her tower, because she was a Ravenclaw in the truest meaning of the name; she was clever enough to understand that anyone who might be wandering about with the knowledge of her sister's continued existence could connect Sabina's visit to Hogwarts with the timing of the Grey Lady suddenly vanishing from her tower. After waiting a thousand years for another petty yet treasured sibling squabble, she was not about to do anything to endanger her little sister.

She would pay attention to the castle, she would listen to its inhabitants, and when she knew her absence would bring no trouble, she would find Sabina for one last visit and then she would let herself go.

Hermione's throat hurt a bit and her eyes stung, as she and the potion-masked Thorfinn walked away, to think that the next time she saw her sister would be the last, but then Helena had been trapped long enough. She would not contribute to keeping her chained to the world of the living any longer than Helena was willing to stay.

As they stepped out of the station at King's Cross, night was falling. Hermione found herself looking in the direction of The Leaky Cauldron.

Ever mindful of his voice not matching his current form, Thorfinn kept his words to a murmur over her shoulder as he asked, "What's going through that exceedingly and troublesomely clever head of yours?"

Lowering her gaze to the pavement, she shuffled one foot against the ground. "Well, actually, I was just considering that if . . . ." She cleared her throat and gave it another go. "If we weren't in someone else's home tonight, we could give . . . you know, slow, spoiled, and handsy a try."

She didn't have to turn her attention to him to know that behind Draco Malfoy's grey eyes, she was getting a dirty look that was all Thorfinn Rowle. "I'm sorry, I thought we covered this problem back at the castle." He pulled himself up to his full height—which was comparatively far less impressive than normal given current circumstances—and folded his arms across his chest. "Unless you want me to start getting _very_ concerned over your budding friendship with Little Malfoy _very_ quickly."

Now she did turn to look at him and the moment their gazes met, she granted him an exasperated roll of her eyes. "Um, _no_. What I was thinking was that behind closed doors, away from the public eye, you could let the potion wear off, and then take it again in the morning just before we leave."

His brows pinched together as he said, "Oh." After a moment, though, his jaw fell open and he traded the simple version of the word for a drawn out, _"Ohhhhhh_."

She laughed, shaking her head at him. "Feeling better about the suggestion now, my useless barbarian boy?"

"Much." He swept his hand out before her. "After you, my betrothed."

* * *

The last thing Hermione and fake-Draco expected as they crossed the threshold of Malfoy Manor late the following morning was the very furious, very real Draco Malfoy to come storming through the main hall of the grand house toward them. He was waving a missive angrily as he neared them, his grey eyes absolutely sparking.

"What did you two do?!" he demanded when he reached them.

"Um . . . ." Hermione turned on her heel so she could look from one Draco to the other, and back. Huh. To think, for those five minutes during their school years when she'd actually thought Draco Malfoy attractive, this might've been a dream come true. "You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid."

The real Draco gestured toward the letter in his hand. "This. My friend Theo—you remember him, Granger, yeah?—has been staying at the Leaky Cauldron since he sort of lost his family home when his father was thrown in Azkaban. And do you know what delightful message I woke up to this morning courtesy of a very grumpy and persistent owl?"

She winced, giving a half-shrug. She didn't recall seeing Theodore Nott when they'd gone to get their room, but then she'd only been paying attention for signs of the potion wearing off before they got behind closed doors. "Well, I, uh, I would imagine—"

"_Draco," _the irate wizard began reading aloud, _"I know you won't get this until you get back home, but I didn't want to interrupt anything. Seriously, mate, you and Granger? Thought they'd be ice skating in Hell before that happened. I may not approve, but from what could be overheard, let me just say well done!"_

He crumbled the letter into a ball between his palms and tossed it at Thorfinn. "Are you two shitting me?!"

Hermione clasped her hands in front of her, unable to meet her former classmate's angry eyes. "If, um, if it helps, we waited until the potion wore off last night before getting up to anything."

"If it helps?" Draco's voice actually cracked with the weight of his indignation and disbelief.

The witch before him backpedaled a step, ducking behind the impostor-Draco. And, for his part, said impostor clapped Draco on the arm and said, "That might not help, sure, but if it's any consolation, since we clearly _were_ overheard, then by now half of Wizarding Britain is probably gossiping about you being some sort of sex god."

"Wha—?" Draco buried his face in his hands and groaned. His duplicate and Hermione Granger—of all bloody people for 'half of Wizarding Britain' to believe he'd spent the night with—used his moment of taking his eyes off them to slip away, somewhere into the expansive recesses of Malfoy Manor.


	12. Chapter 12

**Warning****: **And I'm only doing this once, because there's a theme at the end of this chapter I swore I'd never touch, _but_ this story is saying that's what needs to happen. So, mind the end of the chapter, it's a little bit of a gut punch. I can't say anything further without giving spoilers.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

"This is a fair bit messier than I'd have thought," Hermione couldn't help but comment as she and Thorfinn—now looking entirely like Thorfinn, a fact for which the real Draco Malfoy seemed eternally grateful, though he'd made it clear he was still not speaking to either of the offending parties and might carry on the silent treatment until the end of time—peered about the basement room. It looked very much like the depiction of some secret castle librar,y as she'd seen in black-and-white films.

Lucius pursed his lips and nodded. "The accounts I unearthed from this 'mess' thus far are over there atop the desk, but I am certain there must be more from the time your father was alive."

Her brow furrowed as she drew closer to the dusty stacks of leather-bound tomes. A few, if stood up, would be nearly as tall as she was! Then again, she knew some ancient texts were simply that large. She unwittingly mirrored Lucius' expression as she wondered. Perhaps she should take a page from _The Princess Bride_ and consider such manuscripts BoUSs—Books of Unusual Size. Wasn't there a monastery somewhere with shelves full of books that size? Was it in Turkey, maybe?

Thorfinn's gaze leapt back and forth between the witch and the elder wizard. He cut off Hermione's wayward train of thought by slipping his hand around her wrist and gently tugged her a few steps toward him so that she was nearer to him than the Malfoy patriarch.

When she looked up at him in question, he lowered his head, whispering in her ear, "Maybe we shouldn't be taking advantage of their hospitality much longer. You're beginning to look like them."

It wasn't intentional that her responding face expression to this observation was a scowl—she simply hadn't thought it out—and he feigned a shocked gasp. "There you go again!"

Hermione shook her head, swatting at him to back away and returned her attention to the stacks. "For a family so dedicated to their own pure-blood legacy, I feel there is a shocking lack of care for these books." Of course, it was her humble opinion that no books should be left in heaps of dust like this by anyone, but she was also trying to be aware, and deeply grateful, that she was being permitted access to a familial trove of knowledge probably no one outside of this bloodline had even known existed for hundreds of years.

Well, that was a weighty way to think of things, wasn't it?

Shrugging, Lucius sighed; he didn't want to know what the young woman's barbarian prince had just whispered in her ear, and he was quite certain he didn't care enough to ask, anyway. "Yes, well, no one in the family actively kept accounts since late in the last century, I believe? But there was—at that time—some organizational method my ancestors used to help them keep things sorted for easier finding. However, the method was either deliberately difficult so only one purposefully told of said method could find what information they sought and has since been lost to the ages, or my ancestor who decided all this was a complete madman."

She echoed his sigh with one of her own. That explained why there were so few volumes on the desk, as well as why some of the stacks were toppled over. The accounts in question weren't dedicated to the life of Salazar Slytherin, they were simply the notations of people who'd been close to him and might know things not made public knowledge during his life. It was possible there were mentions and notes throughout many of these books, and none of it would be easy to find given that the potential madman organizational method meant there was no way to discern how the books were sorted. It was no wonder Lucius hadn't simply brought her down here and left her to it sooner—she'd been dealing with too much as it was and the state of this room, alone, might've added to her duress.

She didn't know what she'd been hoping for, perhaps to find actual books that focused on her father? How foolish that was. She knew perfectly well she hadn't been expecting any such thing, but even so, seeing how much there was to go through beyond the books Mr. Malfoy had already found, himself, made the idea of finding what she hoped for daunting. For a few heartbeats, even the breath she drew into her lungs felt heavy.

Swallowing hard, she pulled out the chair from the desk and sat down a bit heavily. A finger dragging gently along the spine of one of the aged books, she said, "Would it be possible if I could be brought some coffee down here? Seems this might take a while."

Lucius nodded. "I'll see that a tray is prepared for you."

"Oh, I have a question." She turned on the seat and looked at him, her chestnut eyes a bit dim. "My sister seemed alarmed when she thought I might be marrying a Malfoy. Is there some reason she dislikes your family that I should know about?"

His lips tugging downward in a thoughtful frown, Lucius offered a graceful shrug, and here Hermione thought he'd be affronted that anyone would turn up their nose at marrying a Malfoy. "I honestly have no idea. Perhaps you'll find the answer to that in your search, as well."

Thorfinn only watched the other wizard in silence as he pivoted to face the door and stepped out into the main floor of the basement. When he was sure Lucius was far enough away as to be out of earshot, he returned his attention to Hermione.

"What's wrong?"

She pulled the first of the books to rest in front of her and eased open the cover. "I'm not sure what you mean."

His head tipped to one side and he folded his arms across his chest. "You know, I understand this may be hard for you to believe, since we've only become reacquainted with one another less than a week, but I think it's obvious we've gotten rather close in that time."

Affecting a tone that was bland and utterly disinterested, she leaned over the book to begin reading. "If you're going to say our parents were right to match us all along and now you're wildly in love with me, so why don't we forget all this and go elope somewhere, the answer is no."

He breathed a snicker. "Oh, if I wanted to marry you right this instant, you'd jump at the chance." Thorfinn graciously paused as she uttered a scoffing sound. "No, and don't assume to know what I'm thinking if you're going to deliberately be so far off about it, brat. I was going to say I can tell something is wrong. Something has changed, you're . . . deflated."

"Deflated?" she repeated, though she did not lift her eyes from the weathered page, despite that she couldn't really read the words . . . the aged, looping handwriting was perfectly legible, she simply could not focus on it.

The Viking crossed the room, his footfalls heavy despite that he was moving delicately—well, delicately for Thorfinn Rowle—and swiveled to put his back to the wall beside the desk. "You have been so eager to find out whatever you can, so sure answers have to be out there, or in here, or wherever. Positive you're going to uncover something so that you can tell the world your father was not the monster. Something so that when you tell those who've known you so long who you really are, they won't turn against you for something you had nothing to do with . . . and I think after speaking with your sister and learning nothing new, you were hoping whatever was down here would be easily identified."

"I do not mind doing research, Thorfinn."

"I wasn't suggesting that." He forced a gulp down his throat and looked away. She was so determined to ignore her own sinking feelings. "I'm only saying that you didn't consider the possibility that there might not be anything left to be found that can prove what Godric's crime, or that your father wasn't the man history dictates. And I think that just now, for the first time, you looked around here, saw all these books that still might not tell you anything concrete that you could offer up as evidence, and it hit you that you might be wasting your time."

Her throat was tight and the tip of her nose stung. "So are you . . . ?" God, why couldn't she speak? "Are you telling me I shouldn't try?"

He hmphed out an unhappy sigh and lowered to one knee before her. "Not at all." Reaching out, he took one of her hands between both of his. "This is something you _need_ to do, and I understand that. I just want you to bear in mind the reality that it might not go the way you want, is all."

She watched her hand clasped in his, the way her fingers seemed so small and delicate compared to Thorfinn's. The way her skin was so fair in contrast to his, all sun-golden. He was this big, rough, rugged, mountain of a man and yet . . . . And yet he could be so gentle with her that it made her heart ache.

In that moment, she wondered how it was that he'd become a Death Eater. But she supposed it made sense, in light of all she knew now. If everything she'd learned was true, then even the Rowles had not been immune to the effects of what she was now thinking of as The Great Gryffindor Coverup. They must've believed in that old and embittered version of her father. They must've thought Tom Riddle the heir of Slytherin, just as everyone else did—literally all of Wizarding Britain, with the exception of Albus Dumbledore seemed to be have been under that same impression, why should the Rowle family have been any different? They probably believed Sabina would seek out Riddle, that perhaps he was keeping her a secret from the rest of the world until he'd secured her father's legacy.

Probably believed the bronze children had woken up when they did, right on the cusp of Voldemort's return, because he was meant to help them. No way anyone could've known he was simply a power-hungry lunatic using pure-blood idealism and his own hatred of Muggles to gain himself standing and followers.

Hermione always found it funny how Harry was either considered a pure-blood or a half-blood, depending on who you talked to. If it were someone on their side, he was a pure-blood, someone on the other side? He was a rotten half-blood. She always thought that he should be counted as a pure-blood because his mother was a witch, not a Muggle, but a Muggle-_born_. He technically had more magical blood than Voldemort, yet no one ever kicked up a fuss about Voldemort's blood status.

Huh. Just the same way no one ever seemed to take into account that those of mixed blood status—be they half-blood in the way of Voldemort or Professor Snape, or half-blood in the way Harry was—seemed to have more power.

"Thorfinn?"

"Hmm?" He'd been staring into her face all this time as she stared at their joined hands, waiting for her to suss out whatever was going on in that maddeningly bright head of hers and finally speak.

"Why wouldn't Godric agree to letting the half-bloods teach the Muggle-borns?"

His massive shoulders moved in a shrug. "Fucked if I know. I was just shy of starting my first year at Hogwarts when we were put into the bronze sleep. By then, the schooling was already established. Why?"

"I'm not sure, but . . . something just occurred to me."

Whatever it was, it seemed to be exactly the salve her wounded pride needed. The light had come back into her eyes and he thought he could feel the sudden rabid curiosity gnawing at her. "And do you want to share?"

She chewed at her lower lip a moment in thought before she nodded, shook her head, and then nodded again.

Thorfinn pursed his lips. "Which is it?"

"Oh, no, no. I mean I don't mind sharing, it's just I'm not sure if it's even anything, yet, but I think I am onto another piece of the puzzle. From what my sister told us, it seems whatever happened between my father and Godric, it wasn't just one thing that was a deal-breaker for their friendship. Like I said, even after his curse afflicted my mother, Father was still able to go to him to ask for his aid in trying to find a cure. So, it makes sense that there were a lot of small things that added up and then, of course, the one big thing, but I think somehow it starts with the idea of half-bloods teaching Muggle-borns."

"Why could that possibly be that important?"

"I don't know, but . . . ." Her eyes narrowed as she thought back on the Battle of Hogwarts. "I remember dueling Bellatrix at the end of the last battle. It was Luna, Ginny, and me against just her, and she was holding us off. Now, the three of us are all pretty good, that she could handle that duel without giving up any ground is a bit mad, but—I never realized it before now—Voldemort was more powerful than Bellatrix."

Thorfinn's gaze darted about. He vaguely recalled that. He was a bit busy himself at the time fighting the new Minister of Magic. "Of course he was or that mad bat wouldn't have bent knee to him, but I take it you're going somewhere with this?"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure, but Harry took on Voldemort by himself. I mean, yes, it turned out he was trying to use a wand that recognized Harry as its true owner the entire time, but if the wand's power—if _his _power—had been truly dampened by that, you'd think Voldemort, of all people, would've noticed sooner than a teenager wizard who couldn't recognize his own teacher's handwriting after five years of staring at it on a blackboard explaining it to him."

His brows pinching together, he asked, "Really?"

Hermione waved a hand dismissively. "It's sort of a long story. My point is, even with his power somewhat diminished by trying to use a wizard's own wand against him, according to how Bellatrix was handling fighting off _three_ witches, Voldemort should've been able to best Harry. But he couldn't. Harry was too powerful. Voldemort was powerful enough, so that even with his magic diminished, he didn't notice that he was outmatched until was too late."

"I'm so not following anything."

"The only reason Harry was able to beat Voldemort was because the Elder Wand answered to Harry. That's all, the literal _sole_ reason," she said, marveling a bit over how that simple fluke was what had won them the War. "Yes, if Voldemort had a wand that was only his, he'd have won, but the fact remains that there is no way someone of our age and experience should have been able to stand up against the likes of Voldemort on his own. The diminished power put them on a level playing field, but Harry still should've had _some_ trouble."

"So half-bloods have more powerful magic than pure-bloods is what you're saying?"

"Essentially, yes." She shrugged. "I can't really know if I'm right, now yet, but what if that was why Godric didn't want Muggle-borns to be taught by half-bloods? He didn't want their magic to be influenced by those who were more powerful than pure-bloods."

After a few seconds of gaping at her, he shook his head. "If that were the case, do you think it was because he didn't want anyone to know mixed blood were more powerful than pure blood, or because he thought the power of the teacher could actually have an affect on the power of the student?"

A shock of cold settled in the pit of her stomach. "You mean did he fear that Muggle-borns could become stronger in magic than pure-bloods?"

"If he knew Muggle-borns needed to be taught to wield their magic properly, lest terrible consequences come about due to their uncontrolled power, but he didn't want them trained separately, he wanted them _with_ the pure-bloods, knowing they were different, knowing they were not quite like those whose lineage was magical?"

Even with all she'd learned so far, the notion they were playing at caused her to force a breath—for a moment there, her lungs had seemed to refuse to work. This was . . . this was madness, and not only far from what history taught, but nearly the _opposite _of what history taught.

"So then . . . ." She licked her lips, they were parched from her nervousness and the dry, musty air of the room. "If he wanted to keep them somewhere they would always feel out of place, if he wanted to ensure they were never more powerful than their pure-blood peers . . . then that would mean Godric was the one with something against Muggle-borns."

He could see this was still a hard pill for her to swallow. Thorfinn wasn't even certain he was ready to buy this all, himself, they could be completely off about this entire thing.

"I think," he ventured in a tone of caution, "that we don't really know _anything._ At least, like you said, not yet. I think it's entirely possible, sure, but that doesn't mean that's what happened."

Hermione nodded, cognizant that part of her wanted to believe the absolute worst things possible about Godric Gryffindor now that she knew how much had been take from her because of him. But . . . she was also painfully aware that another part wanted to salvage what she could of his legacy just as she wanted to bring her father's to light. There was still that memory in there of Father saying that he'd asked Godric for help. Still that memory that their friendship had somehow endured her mother falling ill. She wasn't sure it would be possible to do both, the Wizarding world had made it perfectly clear they were a people who could not function without distinct heroes to praise and villains to blame.

How could she possibly have thought upending a thousand-year belief would anything but the most challenging task of her life?

But the memory brought another possibility to mind.

Curling the fingers of her free hand around one of the books on the desk, she held it out to Thorfinn. "Only way we'll find out anything is by starting. We need to go back, before the founding, and work our way up to Father's death. We need to look for_ anything_ that mentions him, my mother, or Godric. And I think I've realized something else."

He relinquished his hold on her hand, accepting the book before he settled on the floor cross-legged at her feet. "You're just full of sudden realizations today, aren't you?"

The witch couldn't help but smirk. "I usually am. But I think when we find information about the curse that became Dragon Pox, we're going to learn that Godric didn't mean for that to happen."

Thorfinn's brows shot upward.

Immediately, Hermione held up her hand. "I'm _not_ defending him. Hear me out. Since my father and mother were still on speaking terms with the man who was basically responsible for slowly murdering her, it only makes sense that it hadn't been his intention. He . . . he tried to help father fix it, maybe that was when they realized the curse could carry over to me. I think he was trying something else, entirely."

"Like what?"

"My father was the one who's agenda he wanted to stop, so . . . ." She shrugged, chewing at her lip in thought a moment. "So it must've been meant for my father. He must've been trying to stop him with a curse."

Her betrothed frowned. "I'm not sure how that would keep them friends."

Oh, God, her brain was starting to hurt. "Okay, if he was casting that curse in a fit of anger, as we all know anyone can act incredibly stupidly and selfishly when angry enough, and he realized too late that the magic missed its mark. Maybe it wasn't intended to kill, but to deter him. And if my father's conviction was half as strong as mine, if Godric, even just somewhere deep down, believed my father wouldn't stop unless he was dead, that _could_ have been enough to turn a magical deterrent into a death curse. Intent is almost everything, after all."

"All right, but this was magic, and a curse he crafted and sent out, not an arrow or some direct-fire spell like the Avada. It wasn't as though they were standing too close together and whoops, Godric happened to hit your mum instead of your dad."

"Right." Her gaze darted about as she tried to consider how such a mistake could come about. "I imagine it might've taken him getting some of my father's blood or hair—yes, hair was probably easier to collect unnoticed—to direct it completely, so—" She cut herself off with a gasp, her heart thundering in her chest at the realization. Hair. Her mother and father had the same rich, wavy black hair, they might've even used the same brushes. If Godric had collected their hair without their knowledge, _that's _how he'd have gotten it. There'd have been no way for him to distinguish between the two making it entirely possible he'd used samples from both of her parents mixed together.

"Genetics," she tacked on in a near-soundless whisper, aware she was able to see the matter from a perspective allowed her only because she'd been raised in the Muggle world.

"What?"

Her eyes welled up as the answer came crashing down on her. Why Father was so convinced the curse would come for her, why he had no fear of it striking him. The nonsense about the curse seeking out anyone who sought to bring forth Salazar Slytherin's political agenda was a red herring; it only seemed that way because his wife was a vocal advocate of his views.

More so, it would explain how the succession of events that ended with Sabina going into the bronze sleep had so fractured her father as to make him such a different person from the one she knew.

"There's a very simple explanation for why I had to be sent away to escape the curse. For why my mother fell ill." Forcing a hard swallow down her aching throat, she managed in a small, strangled voice, "You said it yourself, only you didn't realize what it meant. Despite its initial intent, the curse became a weapon meant to strike those of both my parents' bloodlines. That could only mean the children born to Salazar _and_ Rowena."

Thorfinn's face fell and his shoulders slumped as understanding dawned. "So if Rowena fell ill when he unleashed the curse . . . ."

She sniffled, the tears falling free from her eyes, now. "It means—" Her throat closed on the words and she had to struggle to speak the notion aloud. "I _think_ it means my mother was pregnant."


	13. Chapter 13

**For those interested, I will soon be posting my original fiction WIPs on FFN's sister-site, . I will share the link on my profile here as soon as I have something up. :)**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

By the time Thorfinn looked up from the midst of the antiquated ramblings of one Theodeus Malfoy, circa 930 AD—who the Viking was strongly beginning to suspect hadn't the sense to lay aside his quill when his mind started to go—to see through a high and narrow dust-caked window that night had fallen, he was certain his eyes would cross. That or his brain would turn to mush trying to discern the man's meaning about far too many things and dribble out his ears.

He couldn't even be sure how long ago the sun had set. This was when he noticed Hermione had fallen asleep over the desk.

A heavy sigh rumbled out of his chest as he closed the book in his hands. He turned his attention on the stacks. He was sure there was plenty of information in just the right volumes about her father, but uncovering anything they could actually use was going to be quite the feat, if it was possible at all.

His shoulders drooped as the weight of that settled on him. It might _not_ be possible, what she wanted to do. A thousand years, concerted efforts to destroy the truth . . . . He said he'd help her, and meant it, but he couldn't help a little flickering concern in his gut that at some point, the only way to help her would be to tell her the cold, hard truth that there was no way to prove how Wizarding Britain's shining hero had betrayed his best friends.

It wasn't the truth_ yet_—they'd only just begun their search, there was still hope—but he dreaded that it just might turn out to be so sooner than she'd be willing to accept it.

Worse, he knew she felt it. In the back of that brilliant mind, the fear, the doubt. She could hypothesize all day long, but no matter how plausible the notions she put forth appeared, without evidence, there was no use of any of it.

Setting the book in his hands atop the nearest stack—it would be easy enough to identify from the others when they came back down here tomorrow, as it was the one_ without_ a layer of dust or an oh-so-pleasant wreath of cobwebs between the edges of the covers, like some lacy blockade protecting its pages—he climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. It was no wonder she'd passed out mid-reading. The last few days they'd been in each other's lives had felt more like a few months, and that was only for him as an observer helping her through all this. He had all his memories, which he was starting to realize was a luxury in this situation. If only he'd paid more attention to the dealings of adults when they were younger, he might be able to remember something useful, himself. But even that was a blessing compared with Hermione's side of things.

Emotions attached to incidents she couldn't recall, memories assailing her whenever they deemed fit, everything she thought was true turning out to be only a sliver of reality, so covered in embellishments and outright falsehoods that the truth might never come to light. On top of it all, this speculation that her parents might've lost a pregnancy to Godric's curse?

His brows pinched together. That really was a lot for one person to deal with—and here he was, the one who was supposed to keep her from becoming mired getting all weighty, himself.

Easing her gently back in her chair, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her. It seemed quite natural, the way she curled up in his embrace as he turned and started from the secluded basement room with the witch cradled to his chest. He couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh when the often too-serious creature nuzzled her cheek against him and muttered some sleepy, nonsensical tumble of sound.

Everything was so quiet and still that his footfalls echoed off the stone steps leading out of the archive chamber. The creak of the door as he pushed it open felt far too loud, shattering the silence of the manor's ground floor.

His features pinched as he looked about. God, this place was creepy after nightfall. He nudged his elbow against the door and tilted backward, easing it shut as softly as he could manage.

Thorfinn's progress through the house was slow, not simply because of the adorable burden in his arms, but because of the unnerving, deathly stillness of the place. Yes, yes, he recalled how dark the sense of the massive house had been when Voldemort had claimed it as his base of operations during the Second War's end, but there was a difference. It was dark, but it was always filled with people. Life, noise, other Death Eaters plotting how best to carry out some task they'd been assigned, Voldemort moanin' about something or other at the top of his shrieky lungs, the werewolves making right nuisances of themselves because Greyback sometimes couldn't be arsed to mind the Dark Lord's hissed warnings of keeping his army leashed.

Huh, now that Thorfinn thought on it—making his considerations as he crossed the floor on gentle, measured footsteps toward the staircase—had the man meant that literally? Figuratively was one thing, but if he'd thought Fenrir Greyback, hater of wizards far and wide, was going to actually tether his creations on the say so of, well, a _wizard_, then Voldemort didn't understand the creatures as well as he thought. Oh, sure, it was likely he simply didn't care enough about werewolves to bother with understanding them, but it was common knowledge among the Death Eater ranks that Greyback_ only_ cooperated with any of them because the Dark Lord had promised him a world in which his kind would no longer be persecuted. Seemed the height of arrogance that he pushed his luck with a creature known throughout Wizarding Britain for his savagery, but no one had been about to tell Voldemort that to his face.

Not that it mattered. Greyback was run off somewhere since War's End, probably holed up with his surviving werewolves in some forest cave. Thorfinn shook his head, frowning thoughtfully as he hit the top of the steps and turned in the direction of the Hollyhocks Room. Why was he even thinking about that now? He needed to find a way to help Hermione . . . .

Oh, bollocks. Her mad speculating was contagious, wasn't it? Because suddenly he was considering that over the years, Fenrir Greyback had hidden himself away from Wizarding society in places forgotten to time. There was a chance—however remote—that he might've come across something at some point that would assist them, or at least give them a direction.

Shaking his head at himself, he decided to put that out of his mind for now and save it as a last resort option. He eased open the door and went directly to the bed. The sheets were still in a bit of disarray from their adventure two mornings ago—he suspected that Narcissa Malfoy knew exactly what had happened between them, already, and had asked the housekeeper to leave this room alone when she did her rounds—making it a bit easier for him to lay her down and pull the covers over her.

He watched her for a moment, trying to think. His brain was turning to mush, he was sure. But he wanted to find something he could do for her to make this all a little easier on her.

Sighing, he turned on his heel and exited the room, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

"Merlin's arse," Draco exclaimed, pressing a palm over his heart. The house was madness lately, and he couldn't even begin to think about the sort of looks he'd get from 'half of Wizarding Britain' if he ever showed his face outside the Manor's walls again. Unable to sleep, he'd decided to come down to the study for a nice, calming drink.

He'd not expected to open the door and step in to find a ruddy Viking sitting on the chaise in the center of the study as it if were a throne.

"You startled the shit out of me."

Thorfinn blinked bleary eyes at the other wizard, lifting the bottle of Fire Whiskey by its neck, he took a long swig. "Not sure how sitting perfectly still is 'startling', but . . . sorry, I suppose."

"I meant I didn't expect anyone else to be awake at this hour," Draco said, grumping across the floor to the cupboard and fetching himself a glass. He uncapped an untouched bottle and poured. "Wha's got you down here? Did the princess finally have the sense to kick you out of her bed?"

Thorfinn was quite set to tell the other wizard off—as if a woman would kick_ him_ out of bed? Madness to even suggest it, that was—but oh, he was far too exhausted for verbally defending his sexual prowess. He returned his gaze to the flames roaring in the hearth as he answered, "No, she fell asleep down in the archive room, I just put her to bed and found I wasn't ready to turn in, yet. Came down here for a bit of a think."

Draco nodded, seating himself in the plush chair behind Father's desk. Resting his elbows on the polished surface, he raised his glass to his lips. After a quick sip, he asked, "What's the 'think' about?"

"What could it possibly be about, Little Malfoy?"

"Oh, right. Granger, of course. And stop calling me Little Malfoy?"

Giving him a mock toast with his bottle, Thorfinn nodded. "Grow a few inches and I'll consider it." He took a long drink.

"Arse," Draco said with a shake of his head, breathing out a snicker as he raised his glass for a sip. "But was this all really so different for you?"

Thorfinn pulled the bottle from his lips and looked at Draco. Processing the other man's words seemed to take him a moment. Even then, he still only managed to say, "What?"

"This whole . . . mind-fuck thing? Ya know, all the memories of who you were crashing down on you?"

"It really was, yes," Thorfinn replied with another nod. "Dumbledore didn't get his hands on me because I went to Durmstrang. My parents—well, guardians—didn't let me be part of the group that came to Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament. They couldn't have realized Dumbledore knew about Sabina and me, but I think they worried something about the castle or the grounds might trigger my memories to unlock sooner than was safe." He uttered a mirthless laugh. "Changed their tunes real fast once word got out that Voldemort 'the heir of Slytherin' had returned. Since they believed he'd find Sabina, or vice-versa, suddenly going to Scotland and getting involved with the self-proclaimed Dark Lord was a brilliant notion!"

"Yeah. Parents do tend to make shit decisions when it comes to dark and evil wizard overlords, it turns out."

Thorfinn smirked at Draco's sour tone. It was hardly a secret that he would willingly die to protect his parents, and they for him, which made it even less of a secret how the Dark Lord held Draco's parents' very lives over his head.

"Like I said days ago, when Voldemort died, I got everything back in a rush. Dumbledore's meddling made that impossible for her. I have no idea what she'll remember, or when, or what sort of toll it's going to take on her when it happens. I just wish . . . ." Pausing, he chewed at his lower lip in thought and then lifted his free hand in a vague waving gesture. "I just wish there was something I could do for her, some gesture I could make that would at least give her some comfort."

"So, she doesn't find you shagging her particularly comforting then, I take it?"

His brows drawing upward, Thorfinn leaned forward a bit. Bracing his elbow on his knee, he glared daggers at Draco. "D' you really want to discuss what I get up to behind closed doors with the girl who just so happens to be the only person on the planet capable of making the clever Draco Malfoy seem thick?"

Draco pursed his lips, lowering his gaze to peer into his glass. "That'd be a 'no.'"

Thorfinn snorted a chuckle, his expression softening instantly. "Besides, I was referring to something of _sentimental _value."

"Well, she's a woman, isn't she? Get her a present."

"Get her a present? Because she's a woman? Why do I feel like that sentence would have said woman hurling curses at you at you faster than either of us could blink?" That or kicking him square in the bollocks.

"Oi, I'm not being sexist about it. It's actually pretty simple. Women are taught from the time they're very young to expect presents as tokens of affection from suitors or their loved ones."

"Oh." Thorfinn frowned pensively. "I suppose that makes sense_ without_ screaming of misogyny."

"Right?" Draco shrugged. "We're not talking something vapid and emotionless, like 'you're upset? Here, have some shiny bauble,' no. Get her a present that will _mean_ something to her. Something that shows you've been listening to her, that you've been learning about her."

"How is it you know so much about appeasing women?"

Sputtering a laugh, Draco said, "Do you want the 'you have any idea how many times I've watched my father have to appease my mother after he said something daft?' answer? Or the 'd' you have any idea how many times Pansy yelled at me before I started to get the hang of that?' answer?" He winced in hindsight; he so was not sorry they'd broken up.

Thorfinn nodded, stroking the dark gold stubble lining his jaw. He did seem to recall his father whittling and stringing a lyre for Mother after they'd gotten into a particularly heated row. And Thorfinn was never to speak on that—the Jarl, himself, crafting something so delicate with his own two hands that was essentially physical evidence of him admitting he'd been wrong about something. "Hmm. Now that I think on it, there is something that she's brought up a couple of times. Something I think she hasn't even realized she's missed so much. From, uh, I suppose we can call them 'the old days.' I . . . well, I can't get back what she had, of course, but maybe . . . . Nah, never mind. It'd probably be an impossible thing to find, now."

"What is it?"

His mouth twitching side-to-side, Thorfinn tried to discern if his idea of a meaningful present was brilliant, stupid, or merely presumptuous. Against his own better judgment, he shared what he was thinking with the other wizard.

Grey eyes shooting wide, Draco breathed out a low whistle. "Well, that is a bit of a tall order since the procedure to create one isn't exactly legal, it's actually highly _il_legal, but . . . you should speak with my father about what you want to do. He's still got contacts. Might be able to put you in touch with someone who can get you what you want."

"Really?"

"'S worth a try, isn't it?" Draco lifted his glass for a sip. "But maybe wait 'til morning to ask him, yeah?"

* * *

"What is our little princess doing in the kitchens all alone, I wonder?"

Sabina started, spinning on her heel to face the unexpected voice. She nimbly tucked her arms behind her as she moved, hiding the freshly baked sticky bun from view; the soft, doughy creation was still hot against her fingers. "Auntie Helga! I was just . . . talking to the elves. They're quite interesting creatures, you know."

Helga looked over the top of the girl's dark head, catching the eye of the head cook. The wrinkly, doting creature smiled and shook her head at the child's nonsense before returning to bespelling tonight's desserts to bring out their flavor.

The plump witch nodded, folding her arms beneath her bosom and tsking. "Are we certain you are not, perchance, picking at confections, again?"

Her shoulders drooping, Sabina knew there was no use in trying to trick Auntie Helga. Mother always said Helga was quite as smart as her, just as crafty as Father, and a sight braver than Uncle Godric, yet that perhaps she was better than any of them, because she never made _anyone_ feel the inferiority of their skills to hers mattered. Nurturing was what Auntie Helga enjoyed most, whether it was a story by the fireplace—she told wonderful ones, full of dragons and princess-witches rescuing princes who'd mistakenly come to 'rescue' them and ended up just angering their pets—sneaking the girls sweets before dinner, or helping Sabina by magically mending a tear in her clothing from one of her many 'adventures' dueling Thorfinn with hefty sticks they pretended were wands or swords.

Auntie Helga was, of course, of the opinion that Sabina should learn to choose her battles, as Thorfinn was becoming tall enough to possibly pick up a small branch sometime soon and wield that into battle, instead of a measly stick.

Her face filling with guilt, the girl held out the sticky bun. "I am sorry. I was hungry." She had not yet given in to her parents' insistence that she eat her meals, but that left her ravenously hungry some evenings and she knew a growling stomach would not help her sleep.

Auntie Helga's blue eyes sparkled as she swept her little princess up and set her to sit upon the nearest counter. "Then how about you stop this nonsense with avoiding the food on your plate at mealtimes?"

The little witch's features dimmed. "You know?"

"It is not hard to see, my dear. But your parents are right." Frowning, that sparkle left Helga's eyes a moment as she pushed a generous wave of her rich brown hair behind one ear—Sabina knew the woman usually wore her locks braided, so this loose business she was trying out was probably quite the nuisance to her. "With your mother in . . . in such a state, the best thing you can do for them is see to your own health."

Sabina pouted, nodding. "All right." She held out the sticky bun for Auntie Helga to take.

"Oh, no." Helga smiled and pushed the girl's hands back toward her. "I think you need that, even with dinner soon. You have been playing with that Viking boy, again—"

"We were not playing, we were fighting."

Helga smirked. "It is adorable that you believe there is a difference. Call it what you like, your robes need mending, yet again."

Looking down at herself, Sabina gasped, which drew a laugh from Helga. She genuinely had not noticed the state of her pretty, robin's egg blue gown.

"That . . . wretched boy! He told me it was fine!"

"He lied to you, did he?" Auntie Helga propped one fist on her hip and made a 'eat up' gesture with her free hand.

"He absolutely did!" Sabina gave a firm nod of her seven-year-old head—she was quite proud to be seven, now, as she had grown a little bit and fewer people looked at her strangely when she spoke in ways deemed 'too old for her age'—and took a large bite of the rich, sweet dough in her hands.

"And . . . is there a chance it might have been in return for a recent kick to an unmentionable area?"

The girl's chewing slowed, and she swallowed hard. Her brown eyes cast downward, she said, "There is a . . . chance, a small one, of course."

"Of course," Helga echoed, a mischievous half-smile plucking up one corner of her mouth. She drew her wand from within her sleeve and gave it a testing wave. "Now, let us see about fixing it up before your mother catches you looking like this."

* * *

Hermione awoke, glancing immediately toward the window to see the curtains were not yet trimmed by splashes of sunlight. It was still the middle of the night. Last she recalled, however, they'd been in the archive chamber. She thought she had a pretty good idea how she'd gotten to her room.

She shifted a little and felt Thorfinn's arms tighten around her reflexively in response. He muttered some sleepy tumble of sound in her ear before giving into a snore.

She snuggled back against him, ducking her head so that it was tucked beneath his chin. She hadn't thought she'd be able to smile at all in the wake of her speculations just that afternoon. Yet, the memory of that conversation with Helga Hufflepuff—_Auntie _Helga, the kindly, mischievous, clever witch who did, indeed, prize friendship above all else—had her mouth curling in spite of herself.

It was a good reminder that just as she had some terribly painful recollections lurking in the corners of her mind, hidden behind the fading strains of magic, there were also bound to be surprisingly pleasant ones.

She was sure in the morning, Thorfinn would be happy to listen as she recounted the memory. Especially the bit about him being tall enough to wield a tree branch like a sword when he'd been all of nine years old.

* * *

By the fourth day of their archive research, Hermione's spirits were buoyed a little by several mentions they'd come across of her parents. She and Thorfinn had set those accounts aside, deciding the most effective and least time consuming method would be to separate the books that might contain useful information from those which were useless to their search and then comb through the leftover volumes.

Still, though, she did not try to get her hopes up. Constantly reminding herself that this might all be for nothing was becoming an unimaginably miserable hobby of hers.

She was stirred from her skimming by an awkward throat-clearing at the door. Looking up, she saw Draco standing there.

He offered her a strained smile and then gestured toward Thorfinn. "Could I borrow him a moment?"

"Um . . . ." She exchanged a glance with the wizard in question. "Sure."

"You'll be okay here by yourself?"

Hermione snickered. "I'll be alone in a room full of books, there's no place I'd be _more_ okay."

Thorfinn laughed, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her wild hair before following Draco through the door and starting up the stairs.

The witch braced her elbow against the desktop and went back to her reading. A useful volume, and an _un_useful one later, she heard his familiar footfalls returning. But she didn't hear him step into the room.

Again looking up from her skimming, she saw Thorfinn had poked his head in through the doorway.

"What are you doing?" she asked with a curious half-grin.

"I want you to come with me a moment, okay?"

Though she rose from her seat and followed him out the door, she couldn't help speaking cautiously. "First Draco wants to speak to you upstairs, now you want to speak to me upstairs? Have to tell you, that scares me a little."

Grasping her hand in his, Thorfinn guided her up the steps behind him. "Oh, hush you little Slyther-Claw."

Pursing her lips, she held in a laugh at the moniker. Yet, when they reached the top of the staircase, he said, "When we step out, can you just . . . shut your eyes a moment?"

She stopped short—so short, she probably would've tumbled backward down the steps were it not for his fingers gripping hers, she was sure—and gave him a look. "Shut my . . . ? Thorfinn, what have you done?"

"Are you just . . . programmed to be ruiner of surprises?"

Her shoulders sloped as she pouted. "You got me something?"

Oh, Merlin's left tit, she looked like she was going to cry. "Yes, now shut up and close your eyes or I swear I'll return it."

Sobering her features, she did as he asked, well, demanded, but he knew if she allowed herself to acknowledge that he wasn't exactly asking, she'd never comply.

Leaning closer, he stared at her lowered eyelids a moment. Screwing up his face into the most ridiculous expression he could manage, he waited.

No response. Good, she really wasn't peeking.

With a nod, he straightened up and guided her out onto the ground floor. He was glad the timing had worked out as it had, though he was rather certain their hosts were none too pleased about it.

Hermione found herself led further along and then he took hold of her free hand, guiding her to investigate through touch. Her palm brushed something and she recoiled.

"It's okay," Thorfinn reassured her.

Reaching out again, she felt scales . . . small, smooth, almost like the skin of an newborn infant. A snake? _No, _not a simple snake_. _She brushed her fingers along the tiny, coiled body, her closed eyelids burning with sudden tears. "You got me a basilisk?"

"Just hatched last night. I was actually hoping to give you the toad and the egg and let you hatch it yourself, but—"

"But last night was a full moon, and that speeds the process," she said, unsure if her ready answer was a result of her surfacing memories or still recalling the information from that torn page Draco had handed her on that day that felt so long ago, now.

"Yeah. You can open your eyes, he won't be able to kill or petrify until he's fully matured. Not . . . not sure if you remember that."

Hermione was a little afraid to open her eyes. She wasn't sure she wanted to see a baby basilisk, not without feeling that mingling of joy and pain she knew would be inevitable.

But it seemed the tiny serpent had made up his mind for both of them. He curled around her finger, slipping out his even tinier forked tongue to search along her skin for her scent.

She uttered a tear-choked gasp at the sensation and opened her eyes. There he was, his glossy green and brown scales shining under the light from the chandeliers overhead.

Her features crumbled and she could feel her tears falling, but she made no move to brush them away, instead cradling the little serpent to her. She was aware of Thorfinn watching her, of the Malfoys—who must've had something to do with this—beyond him watching her, as well.

"So, you like him?"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but had to shut it and swallow hard before she managed to form an answer. "I love him, he's perfect."

"What will you call him, my dear?" Narcissa asked, sounding genuinely curious for someone who hadn't seemed terribly happy over the notion of having this particular guest. But he was small, and sort of cute, she supposed . . . for now. They didn't use the main portion of their basement much, anyway, surely the younger witch would be satisfied with making a suitable home for her new pet there.

Lifting the serpent, she took advantage of the current ability to look into its beautiful green and gold eyes with their teensy slit pupils. He strained forward in her delicate grasp, touching the tip of his nose to hers for a quick second.

Forcing back a sob, she smiled. "His name is Salazar, of course." Once more, she hugged the serpent, close and gentle. "And I'm never going to let _anything_ happen to you."


	14. Chapter 14

**For anyone interested, I now have some original fiction WIPs posted. You can find the link on my FFN profile, or simply head over to FictionPress. com and check for me (same name).**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Hermione seemed more driven than usual in the days to follow. While Thorfinn's gift had definitely lifted her spirits, it had also stirred a host of old emotions she'd not yet been prepared to deal with attached to memories that were still murky at best. Salazar curled around the back of her neck—his tiny, serpentine form hidden almost entirely by her wild hair and making Thorfinn wonder if she planned to use this trick to tout her pet around in public while he was still small enough to make keeping him shielded from view possible—she zoomed through the dusty tomes with a renewed determination, carefully discarding useless volumes, and he suspected her delicate movement was only on account of how she'd trained herself to handle books. Precious cargo they were to her, after all.

By the end of the next week, she'd fully sorted the stacks completely. He tried to help as well as he could, but it seemed the witch had implemented some private system which caused her distress when he placed one of the books in any incorrect spot. For a few fleeting seconds, he wondered almost facetiously if the Malfoys of old had perhaps spelled their archives to drive mad anyone who put them out of their original order—assuming Lucius was correct, and that order wasn't at all lunacy, but rather a system lost to time. It might've been easier to just leave her to it, yet he could not abandon her in her pursuit. Instead, he would simply read the bit of information that caused him to think this or that particular book could prove useful and then wait for her direction.

But . . . he was beginning to worry. The young woman barely spoke these days. She was so engrossed in her search, she did nearly everything but sleep and take meals down here—and those things were only because he carried her up to bed at night and Narcissa refused to allow eating in such a dusty space, concerned what might get on the food.

One thing she never seemed to forget to do was to take Salazar out to the gardens for a few minutes each day to let him hunt for insects, and to keep a saucer of fresh water on the desk of the archive room for him when he was thirsty, despite Mrs. Malfoy's mild objection—a cleansing charm was no big deal, after all. Damnedest thing to watch him slither down her arm to the desk, intake his fill and the return to his hiding spot, as though he'd already been trained. That was when Thorfinn noticed it. He'd heard her murmuring to the sleek creature every so often, but it wasn't until he actually tried to listen to her, tried to figure out precisely what she was saying to Salazar, that he was able to make out the hissing and sliding syllables that escaped her lips.

She'd _remembered_. Hermione Granger was speaking Parseltongue.

Salazar, the baby Basilisk, was so obedient because she was gently instructing him on what to do. Thorfinn recalled hearing Sabina speak to her pet so when they were children and now he wondered if this had been why they were so attached to one another. Even as young as she'd been, she must've raised her first Basilisk from a baby. He thought perhaps it was no wonder that she had been so mature for her age, pretty much always. Even a thousand years ago, and at all of five or six years old, her intellect had been recognized, and responsibilities beyond her age assigned her because of it.

He didn't imagine Rowena and the human Salazar would've entrusted him or even Helena to raise such a potentially dangerous pet from so early an age.

Yet, she didn't even seem to notice she was speaking as a Parselmouth. Thorfinn couldn't be certain what her response would be if he pointed it out, so he let it be, deciding she would make the realization when she was ready.

Her nights were filled with yet more memories disguised as dreams, but her sleep was far from restful. She tossed and turned from dark 'til dawn, occasionally slapping him awake entirely by accident or disturbing Salazar from where he lay curled into a neat little coil on the bedside table. He began to suspect she was looking forward to her nocturnal recollections—and not because of anything to do with learning who she'd been or cataloging what had been taken from her. No. After waking, she'd recount the events in a rushed whisper, trying to pick apart all she'd seen and experienced. That was when he understood. She'd completely forgone trying to learn about herself in her desire to scrape together clues that might aid in her search for proof of Godric's treachery.

The single-mindedness of her pursuit was becoming mildly terrifying.

Even the Malfoys had noticed, though Lucius and Narcissa were far too gracious to comment on the bruise shaded half-moons forming beneath her eyes or the way her recent shut-in behavior—yes, with the blessed exception of Salazar's hunting trips in the garden, which granted her fresh air for all of ten minutes a day, if that much—had seemed to dull her appearance, leaching some of the color from her skin and widening her already large, dark eyes so that she looked absolutely haunted.

Draco, of course, was the one to comment that they now seemed to have a new ghost lurking about the house who just so happened to resemble Hermione Granger. Thorfinn had been quick to clamp a hand over the other wizard's mouth and drag him out of sight, but when he looked back, he realized that Hermione hadn't even heard the quip.

He knew she was desperate to find something, anything, the _smallest_ scrap of evidence before her friends returned from abroad so that when she revealed her secret, she could show them that her father's identity didn't make her a monster-by-proxy, because they had no idea who the monster _really_ was.

Now, he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb of the archive room, watching her as she poured over one of the accounts, her quill poised carefully over a fresh sheet of parchment as she waited to note anything of importance.

"Please don't hover," she said, her voice so soft he barely heard her. Hermione hadn't even glanced up in his direction. "It's distracting."

Frowning, he pushed away from the entrance and crossed the room. She was going to make herself sick at this rate.

Heaving a sigh, he hunkered down to kneel beside her chair. "Hermione?"

She was engrossed in her search and he tried again. Nothing.

Pursing his lips together, he took a tack he knew she wouldn't like. "Sabina?"

The change in her was immediate. Her posture stiffened and she winced, collecting herself before turning her attention to him, at last. "I've asked you not to call me that," she said, still whispering.

"Well, I used the name you've asked me to call you—_twice_—and you didn't respond."

Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingertips to her forehead. "I'm sorry. I'm just so—"

"Caught up, I gathered that." Thorfinn sighed again, reaching up to tuck some of her wild hair behind her ear. Salazar, from his perch 'round her neck, moved to snap at the intrusion, but a flick of his tongue told him by scent who said intruder was, and he settled back down. "I know this is important to you, but you're starting to worry me."

Her curious, haunted look turned into a lost, haunted look, which seemed worse, somehow, as she glanced from him to the book open upon the desk, and back. "I'm sorry to cause you concern, but I thought this was important to _both _of us."

"It i_s_. That doesn't mean I can't also worry about you." He drifted closer, resting his forehead against her knee. "You need to take a break."

Features crumbling, she curled her fingers into his hair. "I can't. I have to find _something_, please."

The desperation in her voice tore at him, but he knew he had to stick to wand on this one. Lifting his head, he met her gaze. "I'm by no means telling you to give up. All I'm asking is a few days away from this. Just you and me—and Salazar, of course. Hell, we can even hole up in your Muggle house and just not be bothered by _anyone_. No Malfoys, no dusty rooms, no pressure. It'll be like a vacation. If a clue is here, then it's not going anywhere; it will _still_ be here when we get back."

Her shoulders slumped. That did sound nice. And he was right. In a few months' time, Salazar would be the size of a full-grown anaconda no one would be able to look in the eyes, and he'd only get larger from there. If she was intent on keeping him with her until he was too large to hide and old enough to start managing himself, this might be the only time during all of this that she and Thorfinn could take a few days for themselves. There was a little under another month and a half, still, before everyone got back. _God_. Had it really only been two weeks since this all started?

She was losing her sense of time. She was . . . she was losing her sense of herself.

Dropping her face into her palms, she groaned. "I just feel like I have to find something."

"I wasn't going to say anything, but . . . ." Thorfinn shrugged, reaching toward her neck to give Salazar an affectionate little brush with the tips of his fingers. "It might be a good idea to check in with the Ministry while you're there. Just an owl, or by Floo? You're supposed to be concerned with the search for your Muggle parents, remember?"

Her body drooped at the mention. Even if they were found and given back their memories, they'd likely be surprised if they thought 'their daughter' still believed herself to be Hermione Granger, Muggle-born. But she understood his meaning.

"Of course, you're right. For the time being, I have to keep up appearances." She lowered her hands and nodded. "I might not find anything_ before_ Harry and the Weasleys return. I . . . I might never find anything, at all. But, assuming I will find something, I need to maintain myself as the person they believe me to be _until_ I do. For my own safety, for yours, even for the Malfoys."

Those brown eyes, which had just seemed to spark to life for a few precious moments there, dimmed again. Alarmed, his brows pinched together. "What?"

She cast her gaze toward the vaulted stone ceiling and forced a gulp down her throat. "I was just thinking. Um, I said this isn't about establishing the new order my father imagined, and it's not. It's about exactly what I said, righting the way our world thinks of him. But if I can't do that . . . ." Tears gathered and she found herself sniffling. Her heart broke at what she was thinking. "If I can't do that, I don't think I'll be able to stay here."

"In Malfoy Manor?'

Hermione shook her head. "I mean in the Wizarding world, well, at least in Britain, anyway. Knowing what I know now? I don't think I'd be able to keep going in a place where 'Salazar Slytherin's evil ways' are treated as historical fact." She pouted miserably. "If we can't find proof of the past, then . . . I'm going to _have_ to pack up and leave. Somewhere I won't to be barraged with lies just by being a part of the world. I am honestly afraid that if I can't manage this, if I stay here but I can't prove who I am and what really happened, I might go mad."

She truly didn't want it to come to that. Then again, what she really wanted wasn't even possible, she knew that—for the proof she needed to fall into her lap, for Harry and the entire Weasley clan, and _all_ of her friends, to take the time they needed with the truth and still welcome her into their lives with open arms as though they didn't see her any differently.

The sheer impossibility of it hurt, seeming in danger of suffocating her for a few terrifying seconds, as surely as the mere thought of separating herself from Harry and the others did.

Thorfinn appeared to take a moment with that. Finally, he nodded. "Okay."

Her brows furrowed, her expression sobering a little. "Okay what?"

A pensive puff of air hissed out from between his lips and he clasped both his hands around hers. "If we fail, and you want to leave, then that is what we'll do. We will go anywhere you want."

The witch's breath caught in her throat. Suddenly, it was a struggle to keep those tears in her eyes. He just kept surprising her. "We?"

To his credit, he did not appear affronted at her shock. "Of course. Not exactly like I've got anything here to keep me tied to Britain, now is it?"

"But . . ." She shook her head, her gaze searching his. There was a vague yet comforting awareness of Salazar stretching to brush the top of his soft, scaly head against her jaw. "You told me you wanted to collect on the empire my father promised you."

The wizard before her shrugged. "Not much point in any of that without you."

"Is it really something you could turn away from?" Every day since he'd turned up in her kitchen a little over two weeks ago, he proved to her again and again that he was not the person he'd been before Voldemort had fallen. He was no longer the brash, angry, temper-tantrum-prone man who set things ablaze with upsetting frequency just to prove a point. Thorfinn Rowle had somehow transformed from that horrid young wizard she'd only ever heard about and seen across the battlefield, raging at the world for reasons he didn't understand, into the Viking Prince he'd been born to be. Careful with his temper—though that was very much still there, very much still a part of him—protective of what he thought was right . . . even doting on his betrothed.

Still, she had trouble believing even a reformed Death Eater with the memory of a gilded life a millennium ago could give that up.

"Dear Lord, you can be thick sometimes. You're really missing the point," he said with a derisive chuckle as he shook his head. "The very idea was to have that _with _you. I want to find this proof as much as you do, but we both know it might not be possible. So . . . yeah. If it comes to that, and you want to leave, then_ we_ will leave. _We _will go wherever you want, do whatever you want. Just me, you, and our eventually giant-arse serpent we won't ever be able to look in the face of."

She threw back her head and let out a mock sob. "_God_, why do you have to be so thoughtful?"

"I told you," he started, offering a gentle grin, the blue of his eyes glittering from the way the lantern light in the room filtered over him, "Vikings take the responsibility, and honor, of keeping their wives happy _very_ seriously."

In the midst of all the misery she was feeling over these 'what-ifs,' Hermione's heart warmed. "You . . . you really think of me that way already, don't you? Not your betrothed, not . . . not some childhood companion all grown up now, but you think of me as—" She paused, she couldn't bring herself to actually say the word. Instead, she settled for, "Yours?"

He smirked, dropping his gaze to his hands clasped still around hers. "Haven't exactly been subtle about that, have I?"

She shrugged. "Unless you count all the talk about which of us wants to _not_ marry the other one more."

A snicker sputtered out of him. "After . . . after the War, after the false heir fell . . . ." He paused, darting the tip of his tongue along his lips in an almost nervous gesture that seemed very not-Thorfinn Rowle. "I was a bit . . . taken aback, I suppose, that you didn't remember. I felt lost, especially since I was alone. That wasn't supposed to happen, we were supposed to at least have each other. Lucius Malfoy noticed the change in my demeanor instantly. Turned out he'd been waiting for it. Took me in, hid me from the Ministry, much to Draco's confusion at the time. But there was something I had to do—something only I could do."

A certainty that she knew where he was going with this settled around her shoulders. "You had to watch me, didn't you?"

His eyes locked with hers. "I was the only one who knew Sabina. I had to keep tabs on you so that I could tell if you began to remember or not. When you didn't, when it seemed nothing with you was changing, we became concerned."

The witch nodded. "But you had to monitor me. You had to get to know me to spot the differences, if they happened." Her eyes clouded over a bit. "You got to _know _me when I wasn't even aware of you."

Now it was Thorfinn's turn to nod. "You were . . . unavoidable for me." A small, somewhat distracted grin curved his mouth. "When I wasn't keeping an eye on you, I was here with Lucius and Narcissa; they'd be wondering aloud, plotting about how to help you. Look at the papers and of course, there you and all your little DA friends were, nearly every other bloody day. At first, it annoyed the_ hell_ out of me, that you could be so inescapable, yet have nothing at all to do with it. But then, somehow, I started looking forward to it. I would catch myself counting the minutes until it was time to go see what you were up to that particular day."

Hermione held her breath, feeling her heart thump wildly behind her ribcage, cognizant of the beat of her own pulse beneath her skin. Was he . . . was he saying what she thought he was saying?

"I was starting to find happiness in just watching you live. _God_, that sounds rubbish." Rolling his eyes, he uttered a mirthless laugh at himself. "Sappy and rubbish and idiotic."

"No, no." She offered him a smile. "Please, go on."

Giving her hands a delicate squeeze, he relented. "You already know what I'm going to say, I can tell."

She had to remind herself to breathe. "Say it anyway."

He winced, shaking his head. Merlins' arse, he was _never _going to be able to say no to her, was he? "I started to realize that I was . . . falling for this witch. And she didn't even know I was there." His eyes widened a little for emphasis as he shrugged. "_Literally _did not. You were pretty clueless about the whole thing."

A surprised laugh bubbled out of her. "Oh, that's not fair."

"It is."

"It is not," she said, still giggling as she let herself droop forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

"But," he went on, tipping his head to lay his cheek lightly over her ear. "There it was. Nothing to do with the past, nothing to do with the betrothal, or anything I recalled of the girl you'd been, it was just . . . _you._ Been stuck on you ever since, like the poor, hopeless sod I am."

"Oh, it's not so bad." Her voice sounded calm, almost whimsical, for the first time in days.

"Isn't it?" he asked, smiling in spite of himself. "Are you only saying that because you're a poor, hopeless sod, too?"

She recognized what he was truly asking. "I'm getting there," she said, her heart feeling light for admitting it.

His frame trembled just a bit, as though he was in danger of collapsing under her for a split-second. "Thank_ God_. Because if you were about to say no, I'd have been forced to start calling you Sabina again."

"Don't you dare."

"Don't give me a reason."

An amused breath escaped her lips. "You're right. I need . . . I need to get away from this for just a few days. Remember myself for a bit and then come back."

"That's my girl," he said, before slipping his arms around her and standing, cradling her small frame to him.

"Thorfinn?" She arched a brow as he started from the room carrying her.

He shook his head at her. "I'm sorry, did I give you the impression I wasn't going to be ridiculous?"

Smiling, she gave up, laying her cheek against his shoulder. "Not a once, actually."


	15. Chapter 15

**Happy Halloween & Blessed Samhain!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

"I will remind you," Thorfinn said with a snicker as he smoothed the palms of his hands across her shoulders, "the entire point of this is for you to _relax_."

Sighing, Hermione shifted a bit beneath his warm, _wonderful_ kneading. "I am relaxing. _Ouch!"_ She jumped a bit against the bed in response to the unexpected poke he gave her in the ribs.

"There, you see?" He shook his head and went back to massaging his witch. "If you weren't still tense, that would've tickled instead of hurting."

"Fine, okay? You win, I'm still tense." She shifted again, closing her eyes. "I don't think I like it much when you're insightful."

Laughing quietly, he devoted his attention to working along her spine and was rewarded with a tremor running through her body as she let out a pleading moan. "And I don't like it when you're not open with me about something bothering you."

She knew he was right. Any attempt on his part to help her unwind—his efforts toward which were valiant, to say the least—would be rendered ineffective if she refused to let go of the things causing her stress. The smallest among them being that she'd completely overlooked the contents of her fridge, most of which were now spoiled because she had not been home in two weeks. After disposing of anything that'd gone rotten, she phoned for a pizza. Thorfinn had never had pizza before, and she was rather looking forward to watching his reaction to tasting what was possibly one of the greatest Muggle culinary convention of all time.

As she set down the phone, he noticed how rigid her posture was. She only let him talk her into laying down on her bed—in naught but her knickers—so that he could give her a backrub because they had time before the food arrived, not that he would say why massaging her back required her to remove everything but an undergarment, but she thought this was hardly a thing she wanted to argue. Tomorrow morning she would worry about taking a trip to the market to restock the fridge for the few days they intended to stay here; for the time being, she was perfectly content to let coffee and pizza tide them over.

"It's not really . . . ." Again she sighed, shaking her head against her folded arms. "Tomorrow, after shopping, I'll check in with Kingsley. I'm not sure what to say, honestly. I know I'm supposed to want the Grangers to come home, to get their memories back, and even with all that's happened, with everything I am now aware that they knew about all this . . . I _still_ want that."

He worked the tips of his fingers against the small of her back in circular motions as he nodded. "'S understandable, though, isn't it? They did raise you; even if they weren't who you thought they were to you, there's still love there."

"Exactly." Hermione held back a sniffle; she didn't really want to think about this, but she knew she had no choice—her only option if she wanted to get through talking to Kingsley about the search for her Muggle parents without becoming frantic or breaking down, and possibly letting slip things the Minister of Magic should not hear, was to think it all out now. "I don't know if it's okay to want that, like maybe I'm supposed to be okay with letting them go, since now I know the truth—which they always wanted me to know, which they were waiting for me to remember—so I'm a bit at odds with myself about it."

"Well," he said, wincing a little at how matter of fact the statement was about to come out, but there was no way 'round it, really. "You only have two options. The first is to let them be brought back, the second is to leave them where they are. That first one is what everyone expects of Hermione Granger, the second one might require a bit of explanation."

"I'm not trying to weigh those options heartlessly, Thorfinn." She reached out, gently prodding a sleeping Salazar to keep him from slipping off the ledge of the night table. The unhappy serpent shot his mum a withering look—which would have been startlingly fitting an observation if he was old enough to kill with a glare, yet—and slithered further along the surface, putting himself at a safe distance from the ledge and then coiling up again.

"Oi, someone's not pleased with you." Thorfinn didn't speak snake, but he was pretty sure the hissing sound the creature had let slip out was a string of cuss words.

The witch snickered. "Yes, well, seems to take after his dad in how he hates his sleep being interrupted for any reason."

"Because sleep. Is. _Amazing_."

"So, then, nap after we eat?"

Her Viking uttered a pained groan and leaned down, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Merlin, you know me well! _This_ is why I'm falling for you."

She curved her hand around the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his hair. "You spoil me. Letting you sleep at odd hours seems a small price to pay."

"We're getting off topic," he said, easing back from her to continue the massage.

"Ahem? That's not my back."

A wicked grin curved his lips as he worked his fingers in those same circular motions he'd used on her back across the line where her buttocks met her thighs. "Well, technically it is. I mean, they do call it a 'backside', and I was done with everything from the hips up. Your back is small, my hands are large, you do the math."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "What were we talking about?" _God_, it was difficult to focus on speaking with those aforementioned large_,_ _warm_ hands sinking into her knickers to knead her bare skin.

"Pros and cons of bringing your parents back," he said, pretending he wasn't completely aware of how she seemed to be having trouble talking just now. Of _course _he was aware, and he was loving every second of it.

"Oh, yes, of—of course." She gave herself a little shake, trying to focus. The man was a wretch, he knew perfectly well what he was doing to her. "It's not as simple as 'do it or don't', is all. I want them back, sure, but . . . they're_ safe_ where they are. Safe from whatever fallout might occur from this. The entire point of sending them away was for their safety. What if—what if their lives are better where they are now than they could be here? What if I bring them back here, their memories are restored, and they are put in danger? And there's no way to say 'they're better off down there, let's just leave them' without raising a whole lot of suspicions within the Ministry, because as far as I'm _supposed_ to be aware, there should be no more danger from which I would need to protect them." She drew a deep breath, having gotten the words out in a rush because she feared that with the magic Thorfinn's hands were working on her, she would never get out all she needed to say otherwise.

"I must be getting used to you," he said, amusement edging his voice, "because I actually understood that entire jumble just now."

She bit her lip on a whimper as his fingers dipped between her thighs, the motion a bit rough. "That's . . . that's definitely not any _back_ part of me, Thorfinn."

Curling his hand, he pressed his fingertips tight against her in a steady rhythm. "No, but it's still what I'd consider 'massaging.' Want me to stop?"

Unable to help a shuddering breath escaping her, she pushed herself toward his ministrations. "Don't you dare."

And of course, Hermione thought, that _would_ be when the doorbell rang.

Groaning pitifully, she dragged herself off the bed and fetched her dressing gown and wallet. "That'd be the food."

When she glanced at him over her shoulder, Thorfinn arched a brow. "This 'pizza' you're making me try?" Lifting his fingers to his lips, he suckled at the tips and then winked at her. "Better be worth it."

She had no idea how she forced her legs into motion to head down the stairs and away from Thorfinn Rowle in that moment. "If you don't like it, I promise to make it up to you."

"Oh, well, then . . . by _all _means, off to fetch the potentially awful Muggle cuisine!"

Heaven help her, she was actually humming under her breath as she crossed the living room to her door. He'd been right, this little vacation was exactly what she'd needed. They'd only been by themselves for a few hours, and yet she already felt herself a million miles away from the harassed, emotionally wrought out creature she'd been for the past week while pouring over those damned archives.

Pulling open the door, she was so surprised at the face staring back at her, she actually let out a small cry of shock. "Neville?!"

Her friend, bundled down with an armload of books, lifted his free hand, his expression apologetic. "Oh, sorry, Hermione! Didn't mean to startle you." Though immediately confusion registered in his look, as he'd hardly done anything startling—she'd answered the door, after all, full well knowing someone stood on her porch.

Pressing a hand over her heart, she sagged a little to one side against the doorframe. "No, no! You, um, you didn't . . . exactly. We—I—_I_ was just expecting a pizza, so the timing surprised me, is all." She fervently hoped the conversation was just loud enough for Thorfinn to hear so he'd stay upstairs and out of sight.

"Oh," Neville said again. His gaze moved over her, taking in the careless updo, the flush in her cheeks, and the way her fingers plucked nervously at the close of her dressing gown—well, that and the 'we—I' stammer she probably hoped he hadn't caught—which all told him something he believed he probably didn't want to know about why his friend might be shocked to find anyone from the Wizarding world portion of her life at her doorstep on some random summer afternoon. "Sorry." He grinned awkwardly.

"It's, no, it's fine." So much for Thorfinn's efforts to take away her tension, she thought, as now she could feel her vertebrae pull tight and the muscles in the small of her back bunching. If she refused to invite him in, that would only look suspicious. "I can spare a moment or two before the food gets here. Come in, and tell me why you've brought me what would appear to be an entire shelf's worth of books. Not that I'm complaining."

Same old Hermione, he thought, stepping past the threshold as she backpedaled to allow him inside. Given her current state, and what he'd heard through the Wizarding Britain rumor mill—or, as she was more frequently referred to as, Pansy Parkinson—he thought perhaps he was interrupting something she was up to with someone he didn't want to think about his friend being with.

Then again, Pansy had told him that in a shocked and somewhat drunken whisper that was mostly giggles whilst in the confines of his bedroom, so maybe he shouldn't be judging who anyone kept company with post-war.

"Right, um, these are from Professor McGonagall."

Hermione's brows lifted as she turned to watch him carefully place the armful on her coffee table. "What?"

He straightened and waved an arm toward the stack. "I was helping out at Hogwarts and she asked me if I could drop these with you on my way back home. Something about some research project you're doing?" He would leave off mention that who the elder witch had said her research partner was lined up with the rumor mill's information. "She said each of these has some bits of information about the castle that aren't typically considered part of the castle's history, but that you might find them useful."

"Oh, right!" Well, now she just felt even more wretched. It had seemed a harmless lie at the time, but now Professor McGonagall was having materials sent to her to aid in her fictional research project. Oh, and there went that knot at the base of her spine, again. "That was so sweet of you, Neville, but you didn't have to do this. I'd have been happy to go and fetch them from her, myself."

"It wasn't any trouble, Hermione. I thought it would be nice to see you, anyway, yeah?"

Good old Neville. Even thinned out and taller and actually kind of dashing, now, he still had that same lopsided, goofy grin. Inhaling deep through her nostrils, she smiled back. "Yeah. Thank you, Neville."

"You're welcome. Have you heard from Harry or the Weasleys, at all?"

She'd checked when they'd first come in for any post from the vacationers. In a way, she was as crushed as she was relieved to find nothing. She wanted to hear from her friends, of course, but she was happy they were so distracted with their trip that they weren't thinking of home. George needed to not think about Wizarding Britain for a while, just as Mrs. Weasley had suggested, and if that meant she didn't get post from Harry or Ginny while they were gone, so be it.

"No. I suspect they've got their hands full. Hopefully with enjoying themselves."

He drooped in relief. "Oh, good. I haven't heard from them, either. I was hoping it was a general thing. I hate feeling left out."

"I was away a few days, myself; you're lucky you caught me, actually." She shrugged, itching to get him to the door yet not wanting to seem like she was throwing him out. "I think a lot of people were of the same mind about getting away for a bit."

"Sure." He returned the shrug, wondering if he could tell Hermione about him and Pansy. No one else knew, and if Hermione was _with _who everyone seemed to think she was . . . . His thoughts trailed off as his gaze shot over her shoulder, the wizard in question appearing seemingly on cue. "Oh, um . . . ."

Hermione's stomach clenched as she realized he was looking toward the staircase. Wincing, she turned her head to follow his eye-line. "Oh, no," she said, the words tumbling out in a breathless whisper.

There he stood, his attention locked on her guest. His hair dripping wet, water dappled across his skin, and a towel slung carelessly around his hips, as though he'd just stepped from the tub—though, Hermione knew it was more likely he'd heard that they had a visitor and decided to put on a show to get said visitor to leave. Except that it wasn't Thorfinn Rowle staring back at Neville Longbottom from his place on the stairs.

The bastard_ still_ had that flask of Polyjuice potion! No, no, no. Rather than the towering height and broad muscles of her golden Viking, she was instead staring at pale and sleek lean-muscled limbs of a figure that only stood a handful of inches taller than her. Platinum hair slicked a dark silver from the water dripped down in front of narrowed grey eyes and she wanted to kick herself that she thought Draco Malfoy fresh out of the bath was actually a rather pleasant sight.

Damn Thorfinn Rowle!

He didn't say a word—and Hermione was blessedly grateful for that, as he wasn't sure the 'he has a cold' excuse would work with Neville—as he strolled down the steps, his gait lazy. What she was not blessedly grateful for was how he continued that stroll, right up to stand behind her. Draping his arms over the witch in a possessive hold, 'Draco' simply stared at Neville, the line of his jaw pressed lightly to her temple.

"Malfoy," Neville said, clearing his throat as he forced a nod.

Fake-Malfoy returned the nod but remained silent. Hermione, for her part, sort of wanted to curl up and die. Right there. On the spot.

No one could say if it made the situation more awkward or less that _this_ was the moment there came a knock at the door. All three swung their attention toward the sound. When Hermione'd invited Neville inside, she'd left the inside door open. Now, there stood a Muggle, holding up a pizza box. His free hand frozen against the screen door as he stared in at them.

What a sight they must've made. The young woman looking as though she'd just rolled out of bed, one young man soaked and wrapped in a towel, another young man gaping at them in a clear state of discomfort.

"Um . . . ." The Muggle cringed. "Hope I've got the right address."

The deliveryman speaking snapped Hermione back to her senses. "Oh!" An awkward laugh bubbling out of her, she remembered that she still held her wallet in her hand. "Of course."

Though she was a little afraid to move from between the wizards—she had no idea what might happen, but she also refused to think on it, despite that that wasn't _actually _Draco Malfoy—she slipped out of fake-Malfoy's arms and came to the door.

* * *

Thorfinn, still in his Draco disguise because his potion had yet to time out, frowned thoughtfully as he chewed his first mouthful of pizza. "Huh."

As amusing as it was to witness Thorfinn Rowle's _huh_ come out of Draco Malfoy's mouth—she would never get used to him pulling this on her, but she had to admit it was clever of him to have thought to bring the potion flask along as a precaution—she was a bit disappointed that she was seeing 'Draco' react to the food and not Thorfinn. "Huh?" she echoed. "Is that a good huh or a bad one?"

He shrugged. "It's good. I think maybe I'm disappointed that you won't have to make anything up to me."

She couldn't help a laugh. Now that Neville had left—and had seemed shockingly understanding about Hermione's company, which was even more shocking, given that 'Draco' had been acting a tad surlier than was typical of him, even from the perspective of the person who'd received the worst of the real Draco Malfoy's torments during school—the tension had drained from the atmosphere of the house.

"I'm sure that even if you'd hated it, you'd have wanted me to wait a little while on making it up to you, yeah?"

His brows pinched together before he realized that he was not taking his, ahem current state of being into account. Taking a second bite, and chewing even more slowly and thoughtfully still, he ducked his head while lifting a corner of the towel around his hips.

"Thorfinn Rowle!"

He looked up, dropping the towel back into place over his lap. "I was just curious!"

"I can't believe you," she said, laughter edging her words.

Again, he shrugged. "Seems I've underestimated him. Probably should stop calling him 'little' Malfoy."

"Oh my God, _stop_!" Dropping her slice onto her plate, she rose from her spot beside him on the sofa and made a bee-line for the desk. "I really don't _want_ to know what any man other than Thorfinn Rowle's got under his proverbial towel, thanks very much."

"Smooth-talker," he murmured, winking.

"Will you _please _not flirt with me until you look like you again?" With a sigh and a shake of her head, she set out a bit of parchment and uncapped her ink bottle. "Anyway, I'm going to write the real Draco Malfoy a letter just to let him know you had to borrow his appearance again."

"Must you?" His shoulders slumped. "But it was so much fun watching him go 'round the bend like that last time!"

"You, Thorfinn Rowle, are officially a bad man."

He snickered, finishing off his slice and reaching for another as she puttered about. "What're you looking for?"

"My quill." Oh, that seemed ridiculous, as there were perfectly working Muggle writing implements all over the place, but something felt wrong about writing a missive to a wizard with anything other than a quill.

Nodding toward the coffee table beside the stack of books, he called out, "Over here."

"Thank you." Hurrying over, she snatched it up. She turned back toward the desk a bit too fast, accidentally knocking aside the first few books from atop the neatly ordered pile. "Oh, bollocks."

Stooping to pick them up, she noticed a slip had fallen from between some of the pages. Hermione set down the books, unfolding the parchment as she rose.

"Oh, my God!"

Thorfinn-Draco was on his feet in a blink and practically bounded over the table between them to see what caused her surprised shout. Peering over her shoulder at the note, he gasped in spite of himself.

"Are you sure we can trust this?"

The witch had to draw in a steadying breath and read the words aloud before she could believe them. "_Minerva knows. Place your trust in her. ~H."_

Oh, the relief that swept through Hermione's chest in that moment was actually painful. "It's my sister's handwriting. I recognize it. What other living person would?" She could feel tears of joy beading in the corners of her eyes as she met that temporarily grey-eyed gaze. "Professor McGonagall is on our side."


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note****: **The question so many of you lovely readers had regarding a ghost's ability to write is answered rather immediately in this chapter, because Thorfinn would, of course, have a similar curiosity on the matter.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Hermione's brow furrowed as she waved a hand at Thorfinn over her shoulder—he was, once more, turning the slip of parchment this way and that in his fingers, his expression wary, as though he expected The Grey Lady's ghostly visage to come pouring forth from the looping ink scrawl at any moment. "I told you, she must've guided Professor McGonagall's hand to duplicate her writing style. The choice had to be specific—intentional, so that _I_ would recognize it."

"So . . . ." He crinkled the bridge of his nose as he let the parchment drop back to the tabletop. It seemed the only time this hadn't bugged him was when they'd been sleeping. And, well, maybe for a few fun hours after they'd gone to bed, but _before_ they'd fallen asleep. He did not like ghosts. It appeared that every time one thought they knew the limits of a spirit's abilities, there came some gruesome shock about 'oh, look at this thing no one ever knew they could do before!,' so he made an effort to never say to himself that he knew everything about them—or about any subject, for that matter. "Are we saying she, I dunno, showed her through her own movements, or perhaps took—um, took hold of the good professor for a few moments, there?"

"Well, I'm not certain how she actually accomplished it, of course, but I trust my sister, and I trust Minerva McGonagall." She was well aware one of Thorfinn's fears about ghosts was whether or not they might truly have the ability to possess the living. Hoping her assurance that she trusted both the living and non-living parties involved, she turned to face him while she grabbed her beaded bag and stowed her wand inside it. "I'll write her back, figure out some way to code the message, after I get home from this meeting with Kingsley."

He sat up a bit straighter where he lounged on the sofa and stretched. They'd had a nice, relaxing breakfast—of sorts, but she'd been correct that cold pizza actually was strangely delicious—and leisurely coffee. As soon as that was finished, however, she'd been in a mad rush. First she'd popped off to the market, meanwhile he'd had a shower followed by a delightful nap, and now she was buzzing about, ready to run off to the Ministry. He knew she said these were the tasks she'd see to today, but with how fast she was hurling herself at her to-do list, it was as though she'd forgotten entirely that this was supposed to be a vacation. Hermione Granger, Sabina Slytherin, whichever name she called herself, the girl had maintained an inability to relax for very long. He wasn't entirely sure if she was naturally this way, or if her life had truly been such a constant blur of events that she'd never learned how to take it easy for longer than a span of twenty-four hours.

He'd much rather they just lazed about today, picking at whatever she'd stocked in that refrigerator. That was the correct word, wasn't it? But she was determined, and so he thought the sooner she handled this, the sooner she would get back and they could proceed with_ his_ plans for the rest of the day—which were, literally, none at all. Well, unless one counted eating and lounging together a plan.

"We'll have lunch when I return. I shouldn't be more than an hour or so," she said, as though reading his mind—though he was rather certain that wasn't all that far from the truth, as eating and sleeping were both activities fairly close to his heart.

"Oh, all right. Shall I start reading through these books, then, while you're gone? See if anything lines up with our search?"

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. They had decided that, being in on the truth, Professor McGonagall had probably sent volumes she thought might help—that the books had not simply been a distraction to get that tiny, yet so vitally important, message to her—but the young witch_ had_ agreed to not let herself get mired in research for the next few days. It meant something that Thorfinn was offering to do some poking about while she met with Kingsley.

Finally, a smile won out. Leaning down, she planted a kiss on his forehead. Pressing her face into his hair, she drew in a deep breath. It was odd smelling the scent of her shampoo from his clipped, yet still somewhat shaggy golden mane. The almost girlish notes of apple blossoms somehow complemented the softness of her Viking's hair, though. She couldn't help dragging the tips of her fingers over his scalp in gentle, lazy circles.

His eyes drifting closed, he uttered a satisfied rumbling sound in the back of his throat at the attention. "You should go, before I get used to this."

"Oh, all right. But I'll be doing more of this petting when I get back. I _love _playing with your hair," she admitted, a pleading edge to her tone.

"Mmm," he breathed the sound as he reached up, cupping her face in his hands and pulling her down for a kiss. "Me, too. I say, no matter what happens—go, stay, conquer the Ministry and establish our own empire—"

"Stuff it with that!"

He snickered. "Whatever our future is, I say this lovely petting thing you're doing should become a daily routine."

"Only if it's a two-way street, that."

"Oh, 'cause I don't spoil you enough?"

Hermione laughed, swatting his shoulder gently as she straightened up. "Speaking of, do please keep an eye on Salazar." She glanced toward the armrest of the sofa, where her tiny basilisk was contentedly snoozing. He slept a lot, but she supposed that made sense with how very much growing his little body was preparing to do over the next handful of months. That had to take a lot out of a creature. "I'm worried he might get scared if he wakes up and I'm not here."

"We will be fine by ourselves for a few hours. No need to get all flustered and concerned. I know what you told me. No loud noises that might draw the neighbors' attention. Don't go outside, don't answer the door, and if that thing over there," he said, pointing at the telephone, "starts making noise, just ignore it."

"Good. Oh, I am just worrying. I think . . . ." For a moment, she just let herself turn over this newfound nervousness in her mind. Just looking at him, her eyes locked with the now so-familiar gaze of Thorfinn Rowle, she realized the source of her unease. "It's because you won't be with me. I don't scare easily, and I feel foolish saying this out loud, but ever since this began, you've become a constant for me. Always there to make me laugh, or argue with me, or just to quietly stand by and make sure I don't fall apart."

Thorfinn sat forward, his shoulders sloping a bit as he exhaled a sigh. "I know, but the only way I could accompany you would be to take that damned potion, again. And, I've got a feeling that your friend the Minister won't buy the reticent act I was able to pull off on Longbottom yesterday. He'd at least expect Malfoy to say some—"

_Pop._

The couple turned toward the distinctive sound of someone come out of Apparition. Though muffled, Hermione felt sure it had come from outside the backdoor—really the only place it could've come from was outside the house, as she and Thorfinn had both cast wards on all possible entry points, and the main structure of the house, itself. Drawing her wand, she held it defensively as she heard Thorfinn rise from the sofa while he snatched his own weapon up from the coffee table. He moved to pull her behind him, which she appreciated, but she shook him off, instead heading through the house beside him.

A knock sounded, followed by an unfortunately familiar voice. And oh, he did not sound happy. "Granger? You'd better be in there."

They each breathed a relieved sigh, Thorfinn lowering his wand as Hermione stowed hers back in her bag. Oh, bollocks. She suddenly remembered that she would have to keep her 'new' wand carefully guarded while she was in the Ministry. If anyone asked, she'd claim she was not carrying her wand on her—it was a personal meeting with her friend the Minister of Magic, she had no reason to think she needed a weapon on her person for that! Yes, okay, that sounded plausible.

"Draco? Hold on."

"Speak of the bloody devil," Thorfinn said with a laugh, shaking his head.

Hermione opened the door and stepped back, allowing the very displeased-seeming Malfoy heir into her Muggle home. He looked from the witch to her wizard, and back.

Thorfinn feigned a chipper note as he asked, "So, what brings you by?"

Hermione and Draco both stared at him in disbelief.

"I don't know, I don't know." Draco shook his head, uttering a pained laugh as he tossed his hands in the air. "Maybe I felt like a letter simply would not do to ask you to stop using my _face_!"

The witch folded her lips inward. She recognized that tone, all right. For all the grief anyone gave him, a furious Draco Malfoy was not something to be taken lightly.

"Oi." Thorfinn held up his hands, lowering his voice to a more appeasing register. "It wasn't planned! That . . . Longbottom bloke showed up unexpectedly and I wanted to get him out of the house before Salazar woke up and came looking for his mum. Hermione Granger suddenly deciding to take in a pet snake would've been a bit tougher to explain than you being here."

Draco arched a brow, nodding. He supposed he could be reasonable about the matter. This was a tough situation for the pair, and he couldn't know what it was like for them, but he could hardly let them keep dragging his visage out whenever it was convenient.

"Okay, okay." He wiped his hands down his face in an exhausted gesture. It was early in the day, but he was already so tired just standing here with them. "Is there anything else I should know? Anything at all?"

Hermione and Thorfinn shared a look, both blurting out completely different answers. "I made it look like I'd just gotten out of the bath, so might want to act abashed next time you run into him," was the wizard's response as the witch said, "He was in a towel when he was you and he peeked!"

Both young men turned to gape at her.

Oh, now . . . Thorfinn didn't fear Draco Malfoy, but he could recognize rage as well as anyone, and at the very least, that was an emotion to be respected. "Of all the things you could say?"

The expression on Draco's face said he might just have a meltdown before he decided how to feel. After a moment, however—and much to Hermione's surprise—his posture eased. With a pensive frown curving his lips, he gave a sideways nod. "Honestly? I'd probably have done the same thing in his shoes."

Thorfinn gestured toward Draco as he met his witch's bewildered gaze. "See?"

"Is this . . . curiosity some male thing?"

The males in question exchanged a glance before both nodding, replying in the same breath, "Probably."

She slapped a palm against her forehead. "Men." She would never be inclined to check out her breasts if she had to Polyjuice herself into another girl! Wait, would she? Oh, bloody hell, now they had_ her_ thinking this sort of nonsense! Bastards, the both of them. Worse, that Draco was absolutely unconcerned with the other wizard having seen his bits meant that he was well aware of himself as being, ahem, 'not little.'

The witch gave herself a shake, sobering her ridiculous thoughts. "All right, well, regardless, I'm due at the Ministry. So, Draco, if you don't mind—"

No one—possibly not even Draco, himself—expected it when the youngest Malfoy interrupted her with the words, "I'll go with you."

"What?" Hermione and Thorfinn said at once.

"Look, my dad's right, you need to be careful _wherever_ you go, and as it's clear this lummox isn't going with you—"

"Oi!"

"_Someone _should be there. Since half of Wizarding Britain—though, maybe it's the whole of it by now, thanks to you two—already thinks we're together, I'm a logical choice." Draco shrugged. "Maybe we can even stage an argument and put on a show of breaking up! Put me out of my damned misery. C'mon, maybe it'll be fun. You and me, screaming at each other. Like old times, yeah?"

A half-grin curved her lips. "You just_ really_ want people to stop thinking we're dating, don't you?"

"Well, you do have to see that this spot you've both put me in is not easy for me. I mean, it's not even about you. People believe I'm in a relationship when I'm not. It's . . . confining."

"Draco, you're a more logical thinker than that. The only reason it would be a problem for you is if . . . ." Her voice trailed off as her brows shot up. "You've got your eye on someone!"

Thorfinn, for his part, feigned a scandalized gasp.

"Oh, both of you shut up." Draco turned back toward the door. "Granger, let's go."

She gave Thorfinn another kiss before she turned and skipped after the other wizard, seeming positively jubilant over the potential gossip. "Who is it?"

"I haven't even said there's anyone!"

"Oh, c'mon! Tell me!"

"I will not!"

"So there _is_ something to tell?"

"Dear God, Granger! Would you just-"

They kept bickering right up until they Disapparated from outside the back door. Thorfinn laughed, shaking his head as he went to the kitchen to get a fresh cup of coffee. Honestly, it was a blessing those two couldn't stand each other.

* * *

"Maybe a big, messy break up is a bad idea," she said, her whispered voice thoughtful as they walked through the corridor toward the Minister's office.

One of Draco's brows arched up into his hairline. "And here I thought you'd jump at the chance to get all shrill with me."

"No, no." Waving her hands, she halted and turned to face him. "What I mean is we don't know what's going to happen going forward with . . . let's call it my family issues. There might be times we have to be out in public together that will be unavoidable. That will be harder to explain if we've parted on bitter terms."

"So, you're suggesting an amicable, mutual decision to break up so we can remain friends—God, you and me as friends. How far the mighty have fallen, yeah?"

In spite of herself, Hermione laughed. "You referring to you or me when you say 'mighty?'"

He frowned in thought and nodded. "Both, I suppose. You've always been a bit terrifying."

"Aw, thank you!" She glanced about, ensuring no one was close enough to overhear them. "Besides, I'm a girl—"

"So I've noticed on occasion."

Sputtering a giggle, she nudged his shoulder. "Shut it. What I mean is, it's always easier for a girl—especially an ex who _still_ holds a boy in high regard, despite their relationship ending—to put in a good word with another girl."

Draco gaped at her for a few heartbeats. "You are_ really_ dying to know who it is, aren't you?"

She nodded, not bothering to look embarrassed at being called out on her curiosity. "Well, yeah, o' course, but we _have_ become friends. I genuinely want to help you."

"Hmm. I do suppose you sort of owe me for running amok with my look-alike all over the Britain."

"Again, yes, but not the only reason." She shrugged, offering a small grin. "C'mon, then. Spill it."

Heaving a sigh, he mimicked her earlier gesture, glancing about over each shoulder before responding. "You remember that blonde Slytherin girl from our year, Daphne Greengrass?"

Hermione nodded. She'd actually gotten on rather well with Daphne—shocking for most anyone who was a member of Draco's House—from what she could recall of the very few times they'd interacted during shared classes. "Daphne, really?"

He lowered his gaze to the ground, looking actually sort of adorable as his mouth pinched to one side and he shuffled a heel against the tiled floor. "No, not . . . not Daphne. Her sister."

For that, Hermione had to think for a moment. After searching her school-based recollections, she remembered Daphne's sister, Astoria. A year behind them, Astoria was just as pretty as the elder of the Greengrass girls, but her hair was a rich brown instead of golden, and where Daphne had large, sparkling blue eyes, Astoria's were a bright, brimming green.

Well, it was no wonder Draco was falling all over himself just talking about her. Astoria Greengrass was lovely in so many senses of the word.

"I see," Hermione said, smirking as she turned and started down the corridor again.

His brow furrowing at her amused expression, he rushed a few steps to catch up to her. "Why is that funny?"

"Not funny, just . . . you're sure she's not too good for the likes of you?"

The wizard rolled his eyes. "Ha-ha. Okay, if we're breaking up amicably, then we have to find some way to get the word out."

"Right." She nodded, knowing he was correct. If no one knew they'd 'broken up' it would be the same for poor Draco as if they hadn't. "We need to let it slip to someone who'd be just itching to tell people."

"Someone who's not good with 'secrets' and loves gossip," he tacked on.

They both paused mid-step, turning their heads to share a look. "Pansy," they agreed in the same moment.

* * *

By the time they reached the Minister's office, Kingsley was waiting outside the door. Hermione did not like the way he was watching her and Draco as they approached.

His dark-eyed gaze traveling over the other wizard before turning his attention on her, Kingsley said, "Hermione . . . and Malfoy." It wasn't really a greeting.

"Something wrong?" she asked, immediately feeling her stomach turn itself inside out at his gravely serious tone.

He started to nod, but then stopped himself. "I think it's a matter best discussed behind closed doors."

"Well . . . ." She swallowed hard. "Can Draco hear whatever you're going to tell me, too?"

Though his broad shoulders slumped in resignation, Kingsley answered, "That is entirely up to you."

Nodding, she latched a hand around Draco's wrist and followed the Minister into his office. Once inside, even with the door closed behind them and a silencing charm in place, she did not sit. Nor did she relinquish her grip on Draco's arm. Malfoy, to his credit, made no move to disentangle himself from her, seeming to understand that holding onto him was keeping her grounded.

"Well?" she said again. "What is it?"

His stern expression evaporating in favor of a compassionate look, Kingsley didn't take his seat, either. Instead, he took a cue from them, standing before his desk and leaning his hips back against it as he folded his arms across his chest.

"It's your parents," he started, pausing far too long for her comfort.

Hermione's heart jumped into her throat at that pause. "Are they all right?" She might've been ready to let her Muggle parents go on to live a life without her, but the thought of something happening to them still pierced through her chest, as cold and sharp as if she'd never sent them away.

Kingsley winced at the tremor in the witch's voice. As young as Hermione Granger was, she was still one of the strongest people he'd ever known. "We—I'm sorry to tell you, but we actually have no idea. We can't _find _them."

Her knees buckled and if not for Draco's supportive frame beside her, she'd have collapsed to the floor as she choked out a cry of shock. "_What?!_"


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Her body was numb. She was only vaguely aware that she was being moved into a seat because of the minute changes in the view that passed before her dazed eyes. She thought perhaps she might've even lost consciousness due to shock for a few seconds, there, because another of her dreamed memories drifted into existence, unfolding in her mind as though she had all the time in the world to examine the recollection.

"_You cannot go with us," nine-year-old Thorfinn informed her, what she surmised was a delighted sneer twisting his features._

_Sabina frowned, plucking up the length of her fine, robin's egg blue robes in her little fists as she hurried after him. "But why not? I am just as capable as you!"_

"_Maybe you are, maybe you are not, but the Jarl's Hunt is _only _for those who have already proven themselves in the wild."_

"_Well . . . ." She pouted, shaking her head as she followed at his heels. The little witch new perfectly well her betrothed did not normally walk this fast—he was deliberately walking quicker to keep her running. The_ scoundrel!_ "How is one supposed to prove themselves in the wild if they are not permitted to go on a hunt?"_

"_I would not know, where we came from things were different. Here, everyone is _so _concerned with injuries." He stopped abruptly, chuckling in a way that seemed a bit too mature for his age when his sudden halt caused her to run into him, her face planted firm between his shoulder blades for a moment._

_She backpedaled, rubbing her palm over the bridge of her stinging nose. "You did that on purpose."_

_Thorfinn turned on his heel, sneering at her once more. "Prove it."_

"_I do not need to prove a truth."_

_He rolled his eyes, she always made sense, sometimes simply not in a way with which others agreed. "Grouse all you like Sabina, you cannot go. Pure, simple, and none of my concern. Besides, you would be safer staying behind in the castle."_

_She knew it was not because she was 'a girl!', for his own mother was participating in the event. "Safer?" she echoed, her tone shrill._

_Thorfinn clamped his hands around her tiny shoulders, appearing wise beyond his years as he spoke. "You have no experience in the woods. You could get hurt, anything could happen. You could . . . you could fall over a tree root, smash your head on a rock and die. And what then? How am I supposed to marry a dead girl, hmm?"_

_Sabina scowled up at him._

_The young Viking was not ruffled in the least by her irritation. "Now, off with you. I have training."_

_She scowled harder, knowing full well she was normally allowed to watch his training, but now he was making it seem different and special and secretive, since this training was specifically in preparation for that big, stupid hunt tomorrow._

"_Fine," she huffed, stamping her heel and whirling away from him. In her wake, she could hear the Jarl's deep, rich, chuckle as he warned his son that—if he were lucky__—__he would someday learn to regret angering his woman._

_Once out of their eyeline, Sabina whirled right back around. Ducking behind the nearest wall, she backtracked, finding her way to a place from where she could have a clear view of today's training. Typical, she thought, watching. They were using wooden weapons—she knew it was practical, giving the trainees the feel of the proper weight of the items, while the worst injury that might occur was some bruising or a broken bone, perhaps, if an impact or swing had enough power behind it. Certainly, a broken arm might put one out of training for a time even with the proper medicinal potions, but you learned from it. Broken bones healed, severed limbs did not._

_She shielded a snicker behind her cupped hand, imagining Thorfinn trying to hunt with his practice weapons. Absurd! One couldn't hunt without their . . . . Her hand fell back to her side as a wicked grin curved her lips. No, one couldn't hunt without their _proper_ weaponry, could they? No, no, of course not. Without it, he'd be trapped in the castle, just as _safe_ as her._

_Just as left behind._

_The sound of the Jarl's bark the next morning as he demanded to know how his son had managed to misplace his sword could be heard throughout the entirety of the castle._

* * *

"_And you really have no idea where the young man's sword disappeared to?" Uncle Godric asked, his voice secretive as he lowered his wand, having finished this most recent medical exam._

"_None," she insisted, glancing over his shoulder toward where her father stood, watching with a deep frown creasing his face. No one had thought she was responsible, except for her father and her uncle. And Helena, of course, but then Helena actually _knew _her sister had taken the sword, as she'd been the one to catch her sneaking through the castle carrying it__—__but in that strange way of sisters__—__she'd kept it to herself. The moment the wizards had heard about her betrothed's missing armament, their gazes had leapt directly to her._

"_Well?" she asked, looking at him expectantly as he stood from where he'd been seated before her. "Am I all right?" Really, these examinations were tedious. Every week since Mother had taken ill, Father and Uncle Godric dragged Sabina off from whatever she had been doing to perform wand readings on her, gauging her health._

_Not father. Not Helena, just her. Surely, Sabina spent much time around Mother, but not nearly as much as Father did. Shouldn't he be in danger of becoming infected with her mysterious illness, too?_

"_Fine, dear, of course," Godric said with a thin smile. He looked very tired these days, his thick, reddish-gold hair threading through with premature white, lines spreading out from around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. "I do need a word with your father a moment, though. Then we shall get back to this matter of your young man's missing sword, yes?"_

_The little girl rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, but nodded._

_She didn't hear what Father and her uncle discussed, but she could infer from their tones and expressions that it was yet another hushed argument. They'd always argued, for as long as she could remember, but now it seemed the only way they communicated. They never smiled, never laughed, and it seemed Uncle Godric was constantly apologizing for some overreaction on his part._

_Try as she might, she could make no sense of the situation._

_Father snapped something at Uncle Godric, and the ginger-haired wizard's shoulders slumped. He seemed much smaller than Father when he stooped that way, despite that they were of similar build and stature. They both had become slightly more frail since Mother's first symptoms appeared, despite that neither of them were sick. Sabina thought perhaps it was how tirelessly they were working to find a cure, but why Father seemed to blame Uncle Godric for the fact that they hadn't yet come up with one, she hadn't a clue._

_Father plastered on a smile and stepped around his friend. "You, little serpent, are perfectly fine. Again. We simply . . . worry. We are done for today. No more missing sword business, either, as I trust it will turn up soon enough. I believe Helga expects you in the kitchens to test the elves' newest confections."_

_Sabina didn't want to be appeased and distracted by the thought of fluffy sweet cakes, or scrumptious biscuits . . . but she was only a little girl, after all. Who could resist such temptation? "Fine," she said, hopping down off the cot and propping her fists on her hips. "But only because you are so insistent."_

_Her father smirked at her bravado and made a shooing gesture._

_Her little face scrunching in a suspicious look—she was always being sent off to anywhere else when Father and Uncle Godric had to go back to work. So strange, before Mother's illness had struck, they had adored her curiosity, letting her sit in on the experiments which had led to so many breakthroughs in potions and charms. Now, it was as though they feared a strong breeze in the wrong direction would make her fall ill, too._

_As she reached the door, however, a notion occurred to her. Spinning around on her heel to look back at the pair of elder wizards, she asked, "How does one prove themselves to be included in a Hunt if they are not permitted to go on one _until _they have proven themselves?"_

_The two exchanged a look. This from the minuscule witch who claimed to have no idea where Thorfinn's sword was, because she had no interest whatsoever in hunts or wilderness, or 'any of that nonsense.'_

_Father shrugged. "I suppose one would have to simply go out and hunt on their own. Bring back their kill as proof." Even as he spoke, she could tell he dreaded imparting such information to her._

_Could tell he knew precisely why she was asking._

* * *

_Thorfinn found his sword—tucked beneath his bed, where he could have sworn he had already looked a dozen times—the day Sabina Slytherin had declared her intentions to the Jarl._

_Their fathers had sat around a table, discussing . . . she didn't know, matters of magical state, or whatever. Thorfinn had come running through the Hall to show his father his recovered weapon._

_Just as he was explaining that he thought perhaps one of the castle spirits was playing pranks on him, the doors to the Hall crashed open, seemingly on their own. There stood little Sabina, her normally ordered hair in wild, bushy disarray around her like a darkly golden-brown cloud of frizz and unmanaged curls. Her face was streaked with dirt, and her pretty emerald robes torn at the hem in more places than could be counted in a single glance and mucked up so heavily one could no longer see the original brilliant green for all the greyish brown overlaying it._

_In her hand she clutched the wand that had been crafted for her, but that she had not yet been thought able to use. Tucked into the strand of fine pearls 'round her waist a jeweled dagger Salazar immediately recognized as belonging to her mother, crimson still dripped from the end of the blade, dotting a dark line down her dress. His little girl had blown open those doors with a spell!_

_He was as proud as he was confused by the spectacle._

_She held something behind her back, keeping whatever her secret was close as she strode into the room and neared their table. Thorfinn watched her through narrowed eyes as he stuck his sword behind his back, suddenly not so certain the spirits had anything to do with its disappearance. Of course the blade was clean, so whatever she'd done, that dagger at her waist was the only weapon she'd used._

"_Father," she said, her tone crisp. Sabina turned her full attention on Dagfinn Rowle. "Mighty Jarl." She nodded to him in a strangely formal gesture and then pulled her arm from behind her back. The Viking wizard's brows shot upward as the little witch slapped her kills down before him._

_Tipping his head to one side, he trailed his fingers over the still-cooling bodies. A hare, a fine, fat little bird, and a pair of red squirrels._

"_I demand inclusion in your next hunt, My Lord." Leaving her kills before him, she turned and started for the doors, not waiting for a response, letting all present understand that it was not a request._

"_Sabina?" Salazar called, his tone giving away that he was just as stunned as Dagfinn and his son._

_The girl only looked back over her shoulder as she continued from the room. "I am sorry, Father, but if I am to wash up and redress in time for dinner, I really must go right now."_

_The Jarl was examining her kills. He nodded slowly, perhaps she had used magic to quiet her movements, allowing her to sneak up on them—had she used a petrificus on them to halt them for her attack, their bodies would still be locked. That particular charm wouldn't wear off before the blood cooled. "Your daughter is quite impressive," he said with a nod, more certain than ever that she was a perfect match for his son._

_Salazar smirked and shook his head, no idea she was lingering outside the door, lest she never know if the Jarl might tell her father she still could not join. "I agree, though her hubris worries me. Such a small thing, believing she is capable of taking on the entire world." After a moment's thought, he tacked on, "And causes me concern for your son."_

_Dagfinn's chuckle boomed through the grand room. "Oh, yes. There is that. Poor boy."_

_Thorfinn did not seem to like the elder wizards laughing at his expense. "What is that supposed to mean?"_

_His father shrugged, calling forth an elf to take the witch's trophies. "It means your betrothed gets to join us on our next Hunt. You had best keep a tight hold on your sword until then."_

_Feeling quite satisfied that her stunt had proven successful, she started toward the staircase. Now that she got to go—now that she would not be left behind—she no longer had need to hide Thorfinn's sword._

* * *

The Minister's office swam into focus around her. Odd, she hadn't even remembered her eyes closing, but she'd been there in the Great Hall, and now here she was back in the Ministry.

Immediately recalling what had happened, her gaze jumped to Malfoy's. If she hadn't even recalled when the memory had taken hold or how long it had taken to flit past, then she couldn't be certain she'd not spoken any of the things her younger self had said aloud.

"Are you okay?" he asked, shaking his head at her. "You fainted."

"I did what?" She swallowed hard. She hated fainting. It was so . . . so . . . bah. It didn't matter what it was, it had happened and there was no going back and un-fainting. "Did I say anything while I was, um, out?"

Again Draco shook his head.

Relief washed through her, but it was just as quickly pushed aside by her anger and panic. The sharp sting of those harsh emotions drifted back to wrap around her, choking like a scarf pulled too tight.

"It's understandable to have such a reaction, Hermione," Kingsley said in a gentle tone as he held out a glass of water for her to take. "I'm sorry the news was such a shock, but there was no easy way to tell you something like that."

She pushed herself to sit up and accepted the glass, taking a few long sips before speaking again. "I know, it's not . . . not your fault. I simply wasn't expecting to hear that. What do you think could've happened to them?"

"Therein lies the problem." The dark-skinned wizard sighed, pulling up a chair to sit rather informally facing them. "It nearly seems as though they vanished. There is no sign of them. They arrived in Australia, as you planned, they seemed to be settling into a long vacation, and then . . . it appeared that they were simply gone. It's baffling and _quite_ troubling."

"I'll say." Hermione had no idea how she was speaking around the sensation of her heart being lodged in her throat. "Do you think someone did something to them?"

"We would have no reason to, unless—"

"Unless?" Draco echoed the word, his brows disappearing into the fringe of his pale bangs falling over his forehead.

"I hate to ask," Kingsley started, shaking his head, "but did you tell anyone, anyone at all, where you sent your parents away?"

"No one." She shook her head, taking another sip. "I didn't trust the information wouldn't get to the wrong person, somehow. Wait . . . ." The witch and younger wizard shared a grim look before she could go on. "You think the Death Eaters might have something to do with this?"

Kingsley shrugged, pressing a fist to his chin in thought. "Anything is possible at this point. If they somehow found out where your parents were—and let's face it, how much of a help you were to our side was not exactly a secret—they might've thought to use their safety against you. Or perhaps for revenge? There are at least three Death Eaters we know of—excluding the Malfoys, of course—who are still at large. As long as no one knows the whereabouts of Rabastan Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, or Thorfinn Rowle, we cannot rule out the possibility that your parents' disappearance happened through magical means. And, given the . . . completeness of their vanishing, magical means might be the only avenue that makes sense."

Hermione looked at Draco again, the question in her eyes as she held his gaze. Other than himself, his father and the aforementioned Thorfinn, the Death Eaters were unaware of the truth. Unaware of who Hermione really was.

It was possible that—had they found out about Australia—those other two missing Death Eaters had thought to find her parents for nefarious reasons, just as Kingsley had said.

"This would be devastating news for anyone, Hermione," Kingsley said, his tone gentle. "We are sending Aurors to investigate, starting with their last known whereabouts. You should go home, let the shock wear off. Check in with me first thing tomorrow. I'll keep you posted daily. On the hour, if you prefer."

She uttered a sad, hollow laugh and waved dismissively with her free hand. "I appreciate the sentiment, but we both know you don't have that sort of time or freedom to stay on top of a singular matter like this. I'll contact you _daily_ for updates. But please. If you find out anything, anything at all, I want to know immediately. I don't care where I am or what else is going on."

"Of course, Hermione." Kingsley nodded, his expression sympathetic as she handed back the glass and stood. "You will, of course, let me know right away if you can think of any way someone . . . unsavory might've learned of their whereabouts?"

"Of course," she said back.

* * *

The moment she stepped through the door, Thorfinn was on his feet, glaring at Draco. "What did you do?"

Malfoy's eyes shot wide. "Me? What do you mean?"

"That look on her face!"

"Thorfinn, please, Draco didn't do anything wrong." With a sigh, she scooped up Salazar, finding comfort in the press of his smooth scales beneath the brush of her fingers.

Taking a seat, she explained everything the Minister had told her. This news was as startling to her wizard as it had been to her, but for a different reason.

"They never caught Bas or Dolohov?" He sat down heavily beside her, raking his fingers through his shaggy golden hair. "This is . . . troubling. Well, Dolohov, at least. Bas probably fucked off to some exotic isle to wait out the storm."

"You think Dolohov is behind this?" Hermione couldn't imagine anyone going to such trouble for revenge, let alone someone worried about being snatched up by one of the magical law enforcement agencies scattered throughout the Wizarding world.

Thorfinn winced. He'd hoped Dolohov was rotting in a little cage in newly-renovated Azkaban, to learn he was still free out there, somewhere . . . . "Well, I've no idea how he'd have found out where you sent your parents, but I do know that he's sort of had it out for you ever since that fight in the Department of Mysteries."

"What?" Hermione felt a sharp ache slash across her torso at the memory, right where Dolohov's curse had struck her. "Are you joking? He nearly killed me that night! What could I possibly have—?"

Her betrothed's face darkened as he shook his head at her, cutting short her words with his expression alone. "_Nearly_. That's exactly why he has it out for you. You _survived_. He considers your continued living a failure on his part. Unfinished business."

She refused to let the fear coiling in her gut get the better of her. Cradling Salazar to her chest in a self-soothing gesture, she frowned. "But . . . if he's not behind the Grangers' disappearance, and he's out there still, somewhere in Wizarding Britain, is it possible he's actively after me now?"

Without warning, Thorfinn scooped up his witch and pulled her into his lap, hugging her close. "I'd kill him with my bare hands if he even tried to come after you."

The sound of the backdoor opening drew their collective attention. They looked up to see Draco excusing himself from the scene, unannounced.

Meeting their gazes in turn, he said, "I'm going to make myself useful. Poke my nose around and see if I can dig up anything about his last known whereabouts. It's all we can do for now. I'll let you know what I learn."

He left them alone, and Hermione felt the world closing in on her. She curled herself against Thorfinn's chest, trying not to give into tears as she thought of the Grangers possibly in some dank, unknown place, suffering God knew what at the hands of a lunatic like Antonin Dolohov.

"Not much I can do to help right now, is there?"

Thorfinn's mournful tone plucked at her heartstrings. He wanted to so much to protect her, even in situations where it was impossible to do so. She needed to calm down. Worrying and panicking never solved anything.

Lifting her head, she gently set a drowsy Salazar aside, whispering to him to go to sleep. Meeting Thorfinn's familiar blue eyes, she said, "Well, I could do with having something to take my mind off things."

He raised his hand, tracing her features with delicate fingertips as he smiled. "That I can do."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Thorfinn turned onto his back, uttering a subdued groan as he stretched, still mostly asleep. Until his reach across the bed told him he was alone.

With a drowsy, confused pout—that he knew Hermione would never let him live down if she saw it—he propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the room. It was still dark, and the door was shut. Already he'd gotten to know her routines well enough to understand that were she simply in the bathroom, she'd have left the bedroom door open, as she intended to come back quickly. But the door was closed, which could only mean that she knew when she walked out of the room that she'd not be back for some time.

That pout melting into a frown, he peeled back the covers and climbed out of bed. A little hissing breath caught his attention and he turned to look at the bedside table. Salazar had raised his little head from his sleepy coil, clearly also looking for his mum.

"Don't worry, little serpent, I'll go rescue her from herself."

Thorfinn couldn't be sure if Salazar actually understood him or simply found the cadence of his rumbling, sleep-roughened voice soothing. Whatever the reason, the minuscule Basilisk put his head back down.

Snickering with a shake of his head, the wizard murmured, "That's it, back to sleep, my little boy." When it was clear Salazar had drifted off again, Thorfinn turned and left the room.

He thought, after the revelation she'd had this afternoon—after the shock and the panic—he should have expected it when he found her in the kitchen. The smell of fresh brewed coffee hung heavy in the air, and she sat at the table. One hand clutched around the handle of a steaming mug, the other was poised over the thick, glossy pages of a Muggle photo album, not the one she'd had her breakdown over the day after she'd learned the truth, either.

"Did you make enough for two?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin at his question. Just barely did the witch manage to avoid burning herself when her startled reaction sloshed around the coffee in her mug.

Hermione laughed at herself, bracing her free hand against her forehead as she looked up at him. "Sure. Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Yes." He nodded as he rounded the table to fix himself a cup. "What with you being so very quiet and still down here? Who could sleep with all that going on?"

She smiled, taking a sip of her coffee while she watched him pull out the chair beside hers and sit. "I couldn't sleep." Sighing, Hermione shook her head and returned her attention to the albums. "I just needed to see them. I thought . . . I thought I was prepared to let them go, but . . . ."

Thorfinn reached across to her, brushing the backs of his knuckles delicately against her cheek. "Of course you're worried about them. There's so little to go on, so much that could've happened to them."

Her brow furrowed as she winced.

He mirrored her expression. "That sounded a touch more comforting in my head."

Again she smiled at him, nodding. "I know what you meant. That 'so much' you mentioned includes nothing at all. They could be fine wherever they are. I get it. I just suppose not much is going to be of comfort until I know for certain that they're safe."

Her wizard shrugged. "I dread to say this, but perhaps Draco will turn up some useful information."

* * *

Draco let out a hissed breath as his shoulders connected with the wall. At the last second, he'd bowed his head forward, saving himself from slamming the back of his skull against the rough stone.

The impact jarred him, nonetheless, and he coughed out a pained chuckle. "Good to see you, too, Bas."

His green eyes blazing with anger, Rabastan Lestrange leaned his face right over Draco's, his fingers gripped tight in the collar of the Malfoy heir's robes. "The fuck are you doing following me?"

Okay, so maybe Draco hadn't been as subtle as he'd thought, but then again, he had sort of wanted to get caught. Play the hapless manipulator card too many of the other Death Eaters still expected him to pull when they looked at him. Never mind that he was the only one to figure out how to get them into Hogwarts at the end of sixth year when the others were completely useless . . . .

"Can't a man just say hullo to his estranged uncle?" Draco slipped his hands around the other wizard's wrists for leverage.

Bas' features settled into an expression of displeasure so chilling Draco forced a gulp down his throat. "I thought I made myself clear. Family or not, I didn't want any of you Malfoys anywhere _near _me." He pulled back just enough to give the younger man an angry once over. "How did you even find me?"

"Now I'm just insulted. You know I'm cleverer than your average Dark wizard."

His scowl hardening further, Bas shook him. Hard.

Draco grimaced, tightening his hold on Bas' wrists. "No offense, since you're already clearly very angry, but you're not exactly the strongest wand in the shop, as it were."

"You really think it's smart to sass the person holding you off the ground?"

"Oh, now, you're not _that _strong. I'm on my toes."

Bas shook him again.

"All right, all right!" Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slow, Draco allowed his head to tip back against the wall. "You once said if the Dark Lord's plans went sideways, you'd hide out right smack where no one would expect you to be stupid enough to go . . . . _Home_."

"Yeah? Well . . . ." Bas' scowl melted down into a far less terrifying frown. "I was right. No one's thought to look for me here." He finally relinquished his hold on Draco, taking some small satisfaction from the way his deceased sister-in-law's nephew crumbled where he stood a moment before managing to straighten himself up.

"Place looks like no one's set foot in it in a few decades, probably helps," Draco said, rubbing a palm against his collar bone absently—bloody Neanderthal had probably given him a lovely bruise. He glanced around as he went on, taking in the vine-choked iron gates in the distance, the cracked and pitted cobblestone walk winding up to the estate house, which, itself, looked as though the upper floors were ready to tumble down into the front hall any moment, "To say you've been laying low would be a massive understatement, but a little advice? Because, well, as you've said, we're family."

"_You_ have got advice for _me_?" Bas chuckled richly and folded his arms across his chest. "This should be good."

"Maybe lay a bit lower than you've been for a bit, hmm? In fact . . . ." Draco paused, glancing around again. "We should probably continue this conversation inside the house. Away from open view."

His brows shooting upward, Bas made a show of turning his attention to the wooded area beyond the boundary of the Lestrange Manor grounds. "Open view of _whom_?"

Draco didn't answer. Instead, he slipped from his place between the other wizard and the stone wall at his back and walked around the steps to start up. "Just c'mon. Trust me."

"Trust _you_?"

The tone made Draco halt. He could just feel Bas' proverbial hackles going up. Turning, he braced his palms on the chipped marble banister and peered down at Bas. "I know. Trusting me—me more than any other Malfoy—is a regrettable decision, but believe me, when you hear what I have to say, you'll understand not trusting me is the more regrettable choice."

Bas only stared at him. Only watched as Draco pivoted away and started up the steps, once more. After a few heartbeats, one heel tapping impatiently against the dilapidated stone beneath his feet, he groaned. Rolling his eyes, he dropped his arms to his sides and followed.

* * *

"You won't do anyone any good by missing sleep, my darling."

Narcissa smirked, taking a sip of her drink before turning her head to look at her husband. "Perhaps not, but could you imagine how many problems I would have solved by now if I did?"

Lucius snickered, uncorking the crystal decanter and pouring himself a glass. He'd already known this was likely to happen when Draco wasn't home in time for dinner. Of course, the young man had let them know he was 'busy handling something' and might not be home until tomorrow—which went over hugely well with his mother—but he was their only child and this was a strange situation in which they all found themselves.

Those two factors, alone, were bound to rob a mother of sleep. She'd barely slept an hour a night from the time Draco had taken the Dark Mark until the night the Second War ended. After Voldemort's defeat, the witch had spent what was probably the better part of two days simply catching up on sleep.

Taking a seat on the sofa facing the fireplace, he gestured with his free hand. "Come, sit with me."

Heaving a sigh, Narcissa crossed the room. As she settled beside her husband, she turned her gaze to the flames dancing in the hearth. "I can't believe I was actually thinking I was relieved to 'only' have to support Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter as she chooses what to do about her legacy. Our lives have been madness since the day Draco started at Hogwarts."

"And just as when he started at Hogwarts, I'm going to remind you that while you enjoy coddling our son, he is not as fragile as the world seems to think." Lucius couldn't help a half-grin as he lifted his glass for a sip—he knew perfectly well Draco could play 'frail' with the best of them if it suited his purpose.

The witch hmphed in a distinctly dignified breath and leaned closer, settling the back of her head against her husband's shoulder. "Do you think it's true? What Miss Granger said in her letter?"

"Which part?" he asked, still a bit amused at how incensed Draco had become over Thorfinn's unpermitted use of his visage. Oh, surely the act was a violation of trust, but there could be no such violation where there was no trust, which in itself proved that a confidence _had _formed between the two young men, and it was likely a fact neither of them would allow themselves to acknowledge.

She turned her head, running her gaze over his long-familiar features. "About Minerva McGonagall." The message had been brief, and coded, lest an interception could reveal Sabina Slytherin's existence to parties unknown—parties who might have reason to harm the girl—but they were Malfoys, and they had understood her meaning plainly. Neville Longbottom's sudden appearance at his friend's residence had forced Thorfinn to disguise himself as Draco, and by the way, her spectral sister had informed them that the Headmistress of Hogwarts was one she could trust.

"It does seem too good to be true that a witch as formidable and with as much standing as she could be on our side in this, but there's always something we can do."

Narcissa arched one lovely, sculpted brow. "There is?"

"Of course." Her husband gave that charming smile he wore when planning anything and was feeling quite pleased with his own intellect. "We'll invite her for tea and have a little chat."

She nodded. "And suss out for ourselves her forthrightness?"

"Precisely," he answered, clicking his glass against hers.

* * *

"And where's this one from?" Thorfinn asked with a tired grin, tapping a photograph of thirteen-year-old Hermione, smiling broad and cheesy, with her adoptive father.

"Hmm?" She leaned closer. Her expression brightened as she let out a sigh. "Italy. We'd gone to France to visit my grandparents—or, rather, my dad's parents—and in the last few days of the trip, Mum and Dad spontaneously decided they wanted me to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa."

"Did they often do that? Change travel plans on a whim?"

Hermione shrugged, yawning. "I suppose. I mean, we always came home on time, but yeah. A lot of family vacations ended up being to more than just the place we . . . ." She sat up straight and turned her head, fixing her gaze on him. "You think they voluntarily left Australia?"

"What I think—what I'm starting to think, anyway—is that maybe we're looking at this wrong. I mean, we haven't considered one very distinct possibility. Like . . . if your parents had such an important job as to keep the knowledge of who you were at the ready in case this was when you awoke, to know what they needed to do in the event of any sort of emergency regarding your safety . . . . Well, there should've been _something_ to keep their minds from becoming compromised, don't you think? What if there were safeguards in place to keep memory charms from taking effect on them?"

The witch felt as though she'd gotten the wind knocked out of her. "It wouldn't have just been them, then. It would've had to be the squib-born line of the_ Grangier_ family throughout the generations, because whoever had custody of me while I was in the bronze sleep would've had to know everything, too. But the safeguard would have to be a tricky feat of magic. I saw them when I performed the memory charm on them—they were _affected._" She shook her head, frowning pensively. "There would have to be some sort of behavior triggered by an attempt to memory charm them, so the person casting it would believe it worked."

"Or perhaps the safeguard makes it so that the effects of the charm are only temporary? You know, so that it wears off and then the charm's victim remembers precisely the thing they're supposed to forget?"

"That could make sense, too. They knew Voldemort was my enemy, they would know I was sending them away so I could fight against him and his forces. Their only other option would've been to stay and tell me the truth—"

"And you never would've believed it at that time. Might've even told your friends in_ Dumbledore's Army _the 'mad' thing your parents had told you, putting them and yourself at risk. You might've even feared someone from the Dark had gotten to them and was trying to trick you through them."

Hermione nodded. "Precisely. The only way for anything to work out like it was supposed to would've been for them to go along with the act of being memory-charmed and hope fate would take its course."

Setting down what was left of his coffee, Thorfinn shrugged. "Whichever it was, no one is born with a built-in safeguard against magic. That would have to mean—"

"That would have to mean there's been a wizarding line keeping close to the Grangers all along."

"A wizarding line who, perhaps followed the Grangers to Australia, waited for the charm to wear off and then took them somewhere else for their own protection?"

Again she nodded. "It's possible. _If_ that's what happened we need to figure out who these people are."

"But if the Grangers are safe, then why—"

"Because the Ministry is looking for them. If they vanished on their own and were taken in by these people, or if these people 'made' them vanish for their own safety, either way finding them could lead to those mysterious dangerous parties Lucius Malfoy is so worried about—if they in fact exist, which we can't know for certain they don't—figuring out that I've remembered who I am. _And_ because there's still a chance that something terrible has happened to them at the hands of another dangerous party, entirely. Either way, the Grangers could be in peril on account of me."

"Not on account of you. On account of people who want to see you hurt, or worse, dead. That's not your fault."

Hermione's features twisted into a scowl. "Doesn't change that I'm at the center of why they'd be in danger, now does it?"

"No, I suppose it doesn't." He sighed through his nostrils and placed his hand over hers on the table. "I promise we will figure this out. Everything else can wait until after you've some peace of mind about the Grangers."

"Thank you," she said, a small, sad smile playing on her lips.

Now that another revelation had rolled through her mind, the witch was beginning to feel quite sleepy. She let Thorfinn tug her back upstairs and tuck her into her bed before he crawled beneath the covers beside her and snuggled down. All the while, there was a flurry of activity in the back of her head, organizing where to begin, what to plan, lists to make, in the search for who the mysterious wizard family aiding the Grangers might be.

* * *

"Okay, we're inside. Talk."

Draco nodded, taking a deep breath as he seated himself on a sofa still draped in a dusty, dark tarp. "You know the . . . ." He actually had to brace himself to say the term. "Mudblood, Hermione Granger?"

"The one you've been dallying with? Yeah. Even hiding out, gossip in Wizarding Britain manages to find one's ears. Guess she's better than nothing, and what pure-blood witch would have you after your family turned their back on the Dark Lord?"

Groaning, Draco rolled his eyes. "That is . . . ." He clenched his jaw, aware he couldn't exactly tell his 'uncle' the truth. "That isn't what it looks like. It's an act—being close to her allows me to keep tabs on the Ministry. Anyway, what it let me hear is that her parents have gone missing."

Bas folded his arms across his chest, looking brooding and intimidating, just as he had outside. "Wha's that got to do with me?"

"They think a Death Eater might've, well, done _something_ to them to get revenge on Granger for her role in the Dark Lord's demise."

"Again, wha's that got to do with me? My biggest plans are figuring a quiet way to sneak myself out of the country and go somewhere no one's ever heard the name Lestrange."

"They're looking for any of the Dark Lord's ranks who weren't captured at War's End. That leaves three names, Rowle, Dolohov, and you."

Bas dropped his arms back to his sides, instead propping his hands on his hips as he nodded. "I see. Rowle couldn't be arsed to put in that much effort. And so you decided to check on me, next?"

"Something like that." Draco returned the nod. "So? What about Dolohov? It was apparently no secret he wanted to get Granger back for _not_ dying from his curse. Your always-open ears catch anything about him recently?"

Green eyes narrowing thoughtfully, Bas came to a decision. "It's not much, but I'll tell you what I know if you'll do something for me."

Oh, Draco did not like the sound of this, but he didn't see what choice he had. If he tried searching for Dolohov by himself, he might not find anything, sure, but there was an equal chance he'd find something—that something actually being Dolohov—and get himself brutally murdered by a lunatic.

Exhaling a weighted sigh, the pale-haired wizard nodded. "What?"

"Help me get the fuck out of Wizarding Britain."

Draco understood—the Malfoy name might not have much influence these days, but they still did have money, and it wasn't as though Rabastan Lestrange could go waltzing into Gringotts to access his family vault. They could provide Bas with more than enough disposable resources that he could pay off those willing to look the other way as he crossed at a border or checkpoint and booked passage by whatever means necessary. "I'll do what I can."

"Your word on that?" Bas pressed with a sneer.

"Yes." Draco's voice was steady, his tone solemn.

The set of Bas' shoulders eased a bit and he looked away, his gaze moving over one half-boarded up window. "I don't know where he is, but I do know that no one—and I mean _no one_—has seen hide nor hair of Antonin Dolohov since he escaped the battlefield after the Dark Lord fell."

"He what?" Draco shook his head, his grey eyes wide. "Vanished?"

Bas shrugged. "Not unlike your little Mudblood girlfriend's parents. Maybe the Ministry's onto something, though. Maybe it's _not_ a coincidence."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

The next morning—or perhaps afternoon, given how late she'd gotten to sleep the night before—Thorfinn found Hermione tearing, near literally, through the bookcase in the living room. His brows pinching upward, as he could swear poor little Salazar was clinging to his mum's shoulders with a mixed look of fear and utter bewilderment, he moved silently into the kitchen. He returned with a cup of coffee in one hand and a freshly warmed Scotch pancake speared on the tines of a fork with other. He'd buttered it while still in the kitchen, of course, but had forgone any of the cream or jam, as they might drip on her carpet—he wasn't _that _primitive.

Leaning a hip against the arched entryway between the living room and dining room, he took a hearty bite of the pancake. He chewed thoughtfully as he watched her pluck one book after the next from the shelves, paused to flip through it in a cursory search and then toss it aside. It was very unlike Hermione to be so careless with books and her current uncharacteristic disregard was troubling.

Several minutes—and a finished pancake—later, he finally spoke up. "This is like watching a rabbit on caffeine trying to escape a library. What_ are_ you looking for?"

She didn't seem at all fazed by his voice cutting through the room. "I am looking for something with the Granger family tree," the witch answered as she continued her search. "My parents had that thing lying about the house somewhere, many Muggles do, in fact. I just can't recall where I'd seen it. Basically? Any book that isn't an scholastic text or a novel is on the suspect list."

He nodded, frowning pensively. "So we are going ahead with the wizarding line protecting your family theory?"

"We are proceeding with any and all theories which have a high probability of being the truth. As far as my Muggle parents safety and whereabouts are concerned there are simply two, so I suppose that's lucky." Standing up on her toes, she reached for the top-most shelf. "Theory one, somebody with a nefarious purpose somehow learned where I sent them and is waiting for me to come looking for the Grangers myself to make good on said nefarious purpose—though that's seeming a little less probable now, as how could they have learned where I was sending them?—and theory two, someone is, and always has been, protecting the Granger line and that someone stepped in to swoop them out of harm's way. Of course, there's always theory three, they somehow vanished all on their own, but I think I'm leaving that one alone until we've ruled out any magically inclined interference, since two Muggles just happening to choose to wander off on their own should not be at all difficult for the Ministry to find."

Thorfinn smirked as he watched her stubbornly struggle to wedge the first book she could reach from that high shelf. His shoulders sloping, he pushed away from the wall. Setting down the fork and coffee mug upon the table, he strolled up behind her.

Reaching over her, he easily plucked the book free and placed it in her hands.

She settled her heels against the floor and exhaled a contented sigh. "Thank you."

"What would you do without me?"

"During all of this mess?" Hermione pouted, offering a shrug as she opened the book to flip through the pages. "I'd likely have lost my mind without you."

She spoke with nonchalance, but he knew her. He understood her—Hermione Granger, Sabina Slytherin, whatever name she found comfortable—well enough to recognize the gratitude in those simple words of acknowledgment.

When she closed this book and shook her head, he silently handed her the next, and so on, not needing any prompting. "Does your family tree state where the different family branches resided?"

"Approximately. Not all family trees catalog location, but this one did if I'm remembering correctly."

"Which you probably are, as this is _you_."

A smirk curved her lips at the praise of her capacity for effortless recollection. "If the Grangers started out as a Squib line serving the Slytherin family during the founding of Hogwarts, that means that somewhere between London now and France where they originated, they lived _in_ Scotland. You follow my logic?"

"Strangely, I do." He handed her the last book. "Find which families—aside from the Malfoys, of course—traveled the same paths as your Muggle family, narrow down the possibilities on who could be protecting them."

Beaming, she looked up from her page-flipping long enough to tap the tip of her finger against his nose. "Precisely."

He crinkled the bridge of his nose and made a face at her. "You're lucky I fancy you."

Snickering, she returned her attention to this last book. "That I am." After a few heartbeats however, she snapped it closed with a growl. "Nothing. I could've sworn . . . ."

Blue eyes narrowing, Thorfinn simply observed her as she folded one arm under her breasts and pressed her opposite fist against her mouth. Her gaze was darting about the room while she lost herself in thought.

"This isn't the only bookcase in the house, though, right?"

"Of course it isn't," she said, her tone almost dismissive—Muggles they might be, but this was _her _family, after all. She knew the one in her room would prove useless, the one in her parents room was a likely suspect. And then . . . .

And then there was the one she_ should've_ thought of first_._

Shaking her head at herself, she rubbed her temples with her fingertips. The notion to search for the documentation occurred to her as she'd left the kitchen to run up to her room and wake Thorfinn after she'd set breakfast and coffee. Laying eyes on the bookcase as she'd moved toward the stairs, the thought had struck, and suddenly she couldn't stop herself.

She should have, perhaps, started with the shelves in the basement. That was where she recalled coming into consciousness as Hermione Granger for the first time. It was entirely possible there was much downstairs she hadn't even thought of—she'd never felt much interest in her family's basement. Was never driven to go down there for anything, really. The realization forced her to wonder if that disinterest was anything like her lack of care about Ravenclaw Tower for so long—a diversionary charm to keep her away from things she was safer not discovering.

But now, she turned a guilty look on the books she'd discarded so haphazardly. "Oh, no! I can't believe I—" She cut herself off as she hurried to carefully pick up each book, check it over diligently for any possible damage, and replace it in the shelf. "Look what I did! I am just the _worst_!"

Her betrothed chuckled warmly and set to helping her. "No, you're simply stressed. Again. Pretty sure this vacation idea was bad from the start. I said a few _days_, and you've barely relaxed for longer than a few _hours."_

Hermione's shoulders slumped and she let him take the books from her. Shuffling backward a few steps, she perched on the arm of the sofa. Salazar ducked beneath her hair in retreat at the sudden movement. "You're right. Your heart was in the right place. I just don't think I _can_ relax. Not now, at least."

Finishing up with the books, Thorfinn came over and sat down on the cushion. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap. "I'm not faulting you for your concern—no one would. I do, however, stand by precisely my reasoning behind bringing you back home in the first place. You do no one any good by worrying yourself sick. Whether your parents are somewhere of their own volition, or being protected, or whether they're prisoners, they're not going anywhere or coming to harm—"

"If they're prisoners, how can you be sure—?"

"I didn't learn nothing from my time as a Death Eater, you know." He sat back and moved her gently with him, forcing her to ease the tension in her posture. "Now, Voldemort was definitely the sort to torture prisoners, and some of his minions, yes, but if this is Dolohov's doing, that's not his style. He tortures on orders, or for interrogation, sure, but he doesn't do it when it serves him no purpose."

She nodded, feeling her gut twist unpleasantly. Thank God she hadn't bothered to eat anything yet. "_If _it's him, and I'm his target, he'd want to wait for me to come to him. He wouldn't have kidnapped them to torture _them_, he'd have done it to torture me."

"Well, sure there's that." Thorfinn winced, disliking the words even as he said them, "I meant more that he's both intelligent and aware of his own capacity for getting carried away. If he started to physically harm them, he might not be able to stop himself from going too far and he knows it. He would not want to risk accidentally doing away with his own bargaining chip."

His witch flinched, gripping her fists into his robes and curling up against him. "God, I wish you hadn't said that."

Circling her with his arms, he pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd take comfort from the idea that if he does have them, they're safe for the time being."

"Well, sure," Hermione said, nodding. "That is a comfort, but it's the after 'the time being' that worries me. I have to find them, but if what really happened was that Dolohov took them, the moment I do find them, that's when they'll be in danger. But I can't not . . . God, this is a nightmare."

"Oh, no, no." He tightened his arms around her, holding her more securely. "Listen, whatever happens, you're not alone in this. If you track them down and he does have them, we'll take the time to plan out how we move from there. We will make sure the Grangers don't come to any harm. Okay?"

A reluctant grin played on her lips. "Thank you." She couldn't help but sniffle, even with the sense of relief his words of caution and wisdom gave her.

Lifting her head, she met his eyes. As she traced over his rugged, stubbly, Nordic features with her gaze, she considered that he had grown up to look like his father—which was not a bad thing at all, Jarl Dagfinn Rowle had been a very handsome, if intimidating, man.

"The Rowle line," she said, the barely audible whisper abrupt as the idea came screaming across her mind.

Thorfinn's brow furrowed as he held her gaze. "Sorry, what?"

"_Your _family, Thorfinn. Think about it." She sat up and shifted in his lap to face him more fully. Their little serpent-child made his displeasure at more annoying human movement known by lifting his head from under the mass of her wild mane and hissing at them both before disappearing from sight, once more. "They were, obviously, there when the Squib line of the Grangier family served my father. You're here now . . . not in London, but certainly close enough for your guardians to have been in contact with the Grangers. The Rowles had you, the Grangers had me. It would've been the wisest thing for the safety of both of us, for the assurance that when we got our memories back, we would be able to find one another, if they kept tabs on one another?"

"That _would _make sense. I don't remember anything like that, though. They pushed me to become a Death Eater, after all."

"No." She bit her lip on a grin—a grin that troubled him a bit, as it was the one she wore when her brain went into that dizzying whirl, snapping puzzle pieces into place before anyone was even aware what the information was. "They pushed you to keep up appearances. Remember, they thought I'd find my way to Voldemort, or vice-versa, since he was claiming to be the heir of Slytherin, thereby the surest path to reunite us was by pressing you to join the Dark Lord's ranks."

"But they couldn't know his intent, not for certain."

Hermione nodded, wide-eyed. She loved sound-boarding ideas with him—he knew her well enough, and was smart enough on his own, to offer hints and nudges to keep her going in the right direction. "Which would explain why they continued keeping me a secret from you. Our memories were still locked, it could've compromised things."

Thorfinn braced an elbow on the armrest and stroked at his jaw. "We would've woken at the same time. If the Rowles and Grangers had been in contact somehow then they _had_ to know. They would have realized our memory charms holding meant we were still in danger."

"Right," she prompted him, nodding.

"You said the first time you saw Dumbledore was before you even received your acceptance letter from Hogwarts. Where does him getting close enough to reinforce your memory charm so early on fit it with all this?"

"He knew who you and I were all along." His witch shrugged. "He might've used the knowledge he had to convince the Grangers he was acting in our best interest."

"And he only focused on you because you're the true heir of Slytherin. I'm just . . . extra."

She tipped her head to one side and frowned. "_Oh_, you're so much more than that!" With delicate hands, she cupped his stubble-lined jaw.

"To you," he pointed out, resting his hands over hers—her fingers were so small and slender in comparison. "But as far as history, true history, is concerned? You're the one who matters. The child the world was made to forget. The whole of the Wizarding world, no one even knows your parents were together. That erasure didn't happen without reason."

"Do you . . . do you suppose, then, that there are two families who know about the Grangers?"

He arched a brow. "The Rowles and the Dumbledores?"

"Yeah." She slipped from his embrace and climbed to her feet. "We have just given ourselves two very good leads. We're going to find that family tree to confirm it, and then we're going to talk to some people."

She was already moving through the kitchen door on her way to reach the basement by the time he was on his feet. "So . . . we're actually doing this? Where to, first? After another bookcase-pillaging, of course."

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him as she pulled open the basement door and reached into the stairwell to switch on the light. "We'll go to the Hogshead. Just so happens I know Aberforth Dumbledore. Even if he hasn't a clue of the Grangers' whereabouts, I might be able to get him to share whatever he knows—_if_ he knows what his brother was up to. The Dumbledore brothers didn't get along after some painful family history involving their sister." Her tone was somber and she took a few seconds before continuing, "It's likley Aberforth can be convinced to part with the information without very much effort."

He let out a grating sigh, cringing as he followed her down the stairs. "And then we're going to talk to my family, that it?"

"Exactly."

Thorfinn halted mid-step. He hadn't seen his family in a while. Sure, he might have his memories unlocked and the daughter of Salazar Slytherin in tow, but he couldn't be certain how warm of a welcome they'd receive until that was all clear.

"Visiting _my_ family. Great," he said in a rough tumble of sound.

* * *

"Something troubles you?"

"Hmm?" Minerva looked up from the missive in her hand. The Grey Lady stood before her, the wispy form of her just inside the doorway of the Headmistress' office. Since Hermione's visit, Helena had taken to leaving Ravenclaw Tower on occasion. Occasions which usually led to her checking in with Minerva McGonagall . . . and staying for chats that lasted hours. The still-breathing witch joked about it, how they were just two lonely _old_ souls keeping one another company.

"Your expression . . . it would seem you are upset."

"Oh, no, no." Clearing her throat, Minerva stood from behind her desk and rounded it. Crossing the room, she held up the simple, seemingly friendly letter for the ghost to view. "Merely surprised."

"I do not see why." Helena shrugged, taking a seat. How funny it was that ghosts were able to easily interact with things like floors and chairs, yet passed right through walls and doors and could not hold onto anything without_ monumental_ amounts of concentration and effort. "I told you what _she_ said." They had reached an unspoken agreement to never say her sister's name aloud as a precaution.

"I am aware, Helena." Sighing, Minerva shook her head and returned to her desk. She set down the missive, Narcissa Malfoy's perfect script staring up at her. "I am simply . . . unsettled at the thought of being on the same side as the Malfoys in, well, _anything_."

"You do not trust them?" Certainly, Sabina's sister had a reason for her personal distaste of Malfoys—but then if she'd married that Malfoy wizard who'd pursued her during her school years, she might not have been 'free' to meet such a tragic and grisly end at the hands of that ridiculous, self-important Baron—but that was not a true reflection on the family as a whole, and she understood that. She did not know much of their house now, but in her time, the Malfoys were social climbers and she had wanted to be loved for herself, _not_ her status as the daughter of a Founder.

"Of course I don't," the headmistress laughed. She was still in shock, she thought, over the Grey Lady's revelations, but looking in just the right places had helped her come to grips the initially wild-seeming tale. If the Malfoys had felt threatened by Hermione—or Sabina, as the case was—as there was no way the young woman would give into their former hardline views of pure-blood supremacy, no matter the revelations brought to light about her heritage, they'd had plenty of opportunity to do something about that quietly before anyone would've been the wiser. No one would've had cause to suspect them, either, which was all the more reason to believe they were in support of the girl. She didn't like it, but she_ was_ a pragmatist. "However, my feelings toward them are irrelevant. I only care about being there for her if she needs me."

Helena smiled. The warmth in the living witch's voice as she spoke her concern for Sabina was heartening, indeed.

"You wish to feel more at ease with this tea you are to share with them?"

Minerva arched a brow. "Of course."

"Then answer." With a determined look on her face, the specter reached toward the desk. Her features pinched hard as she slipped her fingers around a quill, managing to lift the writing implement. She placed it in Minerva's hand and then nearly collapsed with relief once the task was done. She spoke haltingly as she regained her strength—she was getting better at this, though. "But invite them _here_ for it, instead. I wish to feel at ease about them, myself."


	20. Chapter 20

**OMG! Chapter 20, can you believe it? I can't! Most of my fics are done, or finishing up, at this point, but we've got a ways to go with this fic. Happy Holidays to those who celebrate, whatever you're celebrating.**

A small plea from a writer? I'm aware you lot all know a new chapter is coming every week, and some of you don't feel like you 'need' to review because whether you do or not, in 7 days, there will be a new chapter, and you're right, no one 'needs' to review, it's not a necessity or an obligation, but . . . reviewing isn't_ just_ about trying to ensure the writer keeps producing. It establishes a rapport between reader and writer. It encourages us not just to keep up with the story being commented upon, but to go on and write others, to write things we might not have dreamed we could when we started out. Heck, some days, a positive word on a story is the _one_ thing that pulls us out of a really negative place. And that's not just me, that's most writers. So, please, if you've the time when you finish a chapter, just leave that author a few words. I also know some of you don't review because you're afraid you don't know what to say, or you'll be repetitive, but us knowing you're there, simply knowing you're with us is really a big deal, and you don't have to stress yourself out over what to say. It can be small and simple. We can write to our hearts content for ourselves, but when we share it, we share it in the hopes that others enjoy reading the work as much as we enjoy writing it. If we feel like it's not being enjoyed by others, or if that enjoyment starts to dwindle, it can really make a writer wonder why they're bothering to share their efforts.

Whether it's simply 'thank you,' or 'good chapter', or a smiley face (I kid you not, I have a wonderful reader who reviews everything I write with 'good chapter', 'great chapter', or 'nice chapter' and I adore them for it, every single time I see their name on a review notification, it makes me smile) or just repeating a favorite line or scene, a short review that lets a writer know you're there, that you're with us, is so much better than feeling like readers don't care so long as they get their next chapter :( .

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

_If you don't believe me, go check out that old potions shop in Hogsmeade for yourself—the broken down one in the southeast most corner, _Rabastan had said, his always irate voice as smug as it was bored. _That was Dolohov's hideout when things got rough. It's the _one _place he'd go at a time like this. If this is anything to do with your Mudblood then you won't find him there—wouldn't surprise me, it's like I said, no one's seen 'im—but you might find something there to give you an idea where he's gone or what he's up to._

Draco frowned as he stared up at the closed-down shopfront. The edifice was so scarred and battered it made the more derelict buildings in Knockturn Alley appear homey and inviting by comparison. It was little wonder Antonin Dolohov thought no one would look for him here—no one would look for a dying rat here, let alone a very much alive Death Eater with a penchant for hurling curses first and asking questions later.

_Don't you forget now, we made a deal. You go find whatever's there, then you make good on your promise. You don't come back, I'll go find you—Ministry or no Ministry._

Rolling his eyes at the memory of Rabastan's warning, Draco glanced back over his shoulder, assuring himself no one was paying him any mind. He completely believed Rabastan, but he couldn't focus on a threat with all the other varied levels of madness going on in his life right now. Not a soul in the village seemed to notice him, most weren't even close enough to get a good look at anything down this block—this entire cul de sac of Hogsmeade was just as rundown as the building before him. He would wager Dolohov'd selected this shop out of the entire area for the chance it offered to claim whatever might have been left behind in the long-forgotten ingredients stores. He might not be a potions man, but for someone hiding out, they could prove useful for everything from mending wounds and keeping from falling ill to creating traps to protect his little hideout.

"Creating traps . . . ." Draco whispered, returning his wary attention to the shop. Sure, most people would charm a building to keep out curious parties, but Dolohov was a man who liked to sidestep what people 'normally' did, less chance of circumvention that way. He was definitely the sort to instead use something incendiary—something to warn them away with a nice, lasting injury they would not soon forget rather than simply giving them a magical nudge to go back the way they'd come or to mysteriously lose interest in the location.

That unsettling consideration in mind, he once more assured himself no one was looking before drawing his wand and moving closer to the shop. Wary gaze darting every which way, he searched for anything that might be even a hint out of the ordinary about the walls, the ground, the windows, as he walked. His footfalls were soft and carefully placed, lightly testing for pressure triggers with every step before placing his full weight on his foot.

Paranoid as Dolohov could be, Draco was shocked to discover that in this instance, the wizard was a minimalist. The only thing he found was a single tripwire. Ignoring what horrific thing the line might trigger—something that undoubtedly more than made up for the simplicity of the trap—he stepped clear over it, but was no less cautious as he proceeded toward the rear exit of the shop.

The door was ever so slightly a jar, only enough to be able to peek inside at an acute angle. That seemed a strange oversight, but then Dolohov might've done it on purpose. People were less likely to feel curious about things that seemed accessible or out in the open.

Then again . . . .

Taking advantage of his slight frame, Draco illuminated his wand and slid his hand in through the gap. Peering in by way of the dust-caked window built into the door, he watched the spread of light across the space beyond. Only when he was satisfied no other potentially lethal, but most probably maiming, surprises awaited him there—making him more morbidly curious about how bad that initial trap tied to the tripwire must be—did he ease open the door, but just enough for him to slip inside.

He let a sigh hiss out from between pursed lips as he cast his gaze up toward the banister-partitioned upper level. "You thousand-year-old pains in my arse better be grateful for this," he said in a soft and breathy voice; speaking loudly in the dismal, silent space would've felt strange and somehow perhaps even as though it was inviting danger.

This place was _creepy_. The last rays of daylight cut in dust-mote-sprinkled lines across the room from the partially boarded windows up, dabbling strangely formed drops of brightness over wreaths of cobwebs that crisscrossed the interior, and the floorboards were layered near to white with yet more dust.

But that creepiness was also what made his search a touch easier. Through that thick layer of dust, there were footprints—all made by the same person, from the look of them—and those hanging webs were disturbed, here and there, precisely in places where a tall fellow like Antonin Dolohov might mindlessly swipe his hand to keep them from catching on his hair.

Trailing the path of footprints with his gaze, he noted they only seemed to come and go in one direction in particular. His shoulders drooped as he nodded to himself. Little chance that was a closet, wasn't there?

"And of course he'd have been in the basement. Because I need to experience a darker and creepier level to this place."

Giving himself a good, grounding shake, he started toward the door where the footsteps led.

* * *

"I can't believe the only memory I have of this room is waking up in it," Hermione said in a quiet voice as she stood at the bottom of the basement staircase, staring around.

There was nothing overtly bizarre about the lower level of the Granger house, perhaps that was why it felt so bizarre to her. After all, being barred from a place gave one reason to suspect the area would be rife with readily-visible things they weren't meant to see.

But her parents had been more careful than that. The room looked every inch the perfectly comfortable, furnished basement one would imagine in the home of an average, if somewhat well-to-do, family. Nice, cushy sofa, coffee table, television set, stubby stained glass-shaded lamps set on end tables on either side of the sitting area . . . . And tucked away on the far side of the large room, a reading nook.

Against one wall, there lay what appeared to be a simple velvet pillow—long, as though it were meant for napping. "Oh," she said simply.

He looked from her to the pillow and back. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just . . . that's what I was resting on when I first awoke. Like something in a museum. I would've thought they'd gotten rid of it." She ignored the feel of a lump trying to form in her throat over what it said that the Grangers couldn't throw it away.

"You had a big fluffy pillow?"

Sniffling, she breathed a laugh. "Yes, why?"

He curled his lip and shook his head. "I woke up propped against a wall."

Darting her gaze about in thought, she pointed out, "You chose to go into the bronze standing up."

With a strangely dignified pout, he arched a brow. "Still, for all they knew, I could've collapsed or something upon the bronze wearing off. Not a single bloody pillow in sight."

"Perhaps they simply knew you were built of sturdier stuff than that."

Chuckling, he shook his head. "You do know how to sweet-talk a Viking."

She grinned and offered him a playful wink, though she'd yet to budge from the foot of the steps. Honestly, she had no idea how she might've managed to make it sanely through all this without him, just as she'd told him upstairs.

Thorfinn didn't wait for her to lead the way, simply turning on his heel and heading for the corner-dominating bookcases. Frowning, he let his gaze wander the spines of the shelves contents as he drew to a halt between the cases and the soft, warn armchair situated facing the meticulously lined collection of reading material. Only one book was missing, but the work in question was hardly a mystery, as a book lay, marker still stuck in its pages, on the small, round table beside the chair.

He picked up the book and, careful of the marker's place, flipped through its pages before tucking it into the lone empty space among the shelves. "It seems strange how . . . normal this place is."

Finally, she managed to unstick her feet from the floor and cross the room to join him. "I know," she said with a nod, slipping Salazar from around the back of her neck and settling him on one of the armrests. "I was just thinking the same thing."

"It's possible they thought after waking up here before they used that book on you, seeing the room might compromise your memory charms."

Even with everything that had come to light, the awareness of her Muggle parents keeping something like this from her—going so far to keep something from her—twisted up her stomach in sour, anxious knots. "Like Dumbledore making sure I stayed clear of Ravenclaw tower, he must've woven this place into that charm, too. I think everything's the same as it was when I woke up for the first time."

Thorfinn was already looking through the shelves—taking the books out one at a time to go through their pages and delicately sliding them back in their place before moving onto the next—as he asked, "What is it you remember about that night?"

Her brow furrowed in question, but she remained silent.

Glancing from her to the book in hand and back, he said, "You're the brainy one of us—"

"Oh, I don't know," she interrupted, a wistful sigh coloring her tone as she stepped up in front of the second case and began searching the books. "You are pretty brainy yourself, there."

Feigning a wounded gasp, he pressed a palm over his heart. "And here I was hoping I was just another pretty face."

Snickering, she shook her head and returned her attention to their search. "Really, I only remember seeing my parents and maybe the ceiling? Then that book with the memory-alter charm in it."

"And that's not here, hmm?"

"No." She sighed through her nostrils, features pinching in thought. "How did we make it through all those centuries?"

"They operated under the premise that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, we were statues." His massive shoulders moved in a lazy shrug, as though unaffected by the idea, perhaps even bored by it. Maybe he'd simply been so familiar with the notion by now that it truly _didn't_ bother him any longer. "Priceless family heirlooms. Bronze Boy and Bronze Girl."

"Funny, that's what I thought. Sad though, isn't it? A matched set purposely kept apart? Such things are supposed to stay together."

"History always misplaces heirlooms here and there." He cast her a sidelong smile. "Turned out right in the end, though."

"History . . . ." His witch echoed the word in an almost numb seeming whisper. She pivoted on her heel to face him. "We've neglected the books Professor McGonagall sent over!"

Now it was his turn to furrow his brow as he met her gaze. "Because we were looking for your Muggle family records which wouldn't be in any of those?"

Rolling her eyes at herself, she nodded. "Okay, yes, but that's not what I mean. One of us should search here for the records, the other one should be going through those books for whatever it is she wanted us to find."

"Hermione, Hermione . . . ." He gently pried the book she was thumbing through from her fingers and put it back in the shelf before clasping his hands around hers. Her voice was taking on that panicked, shrill edge and she hadn't even seemed to notice her nerves were beginning to fray again.

"What?"

"Look, I know you think finding the documentation is important to back up what you already know, but the point is you _already _know it." Thorfinn jutted his chin toward the bookcases. "This? Whether you want to think it or not, it's a stalling tactic—a way for you to come to grips with what you're going to do before doing it. It's not your fault and you're not trying to delay, but it's just something you seem to do in order to feel steady enough to act."

"That is not true! I've acted without preparation_ loads_ of times!"

His brows pinched upward and he merely held her gaze.

Hermione shifted her weight from one leg to the other and back. "Okay, maybe not loads of times, but I don't always do this, it's just . . . ." She forced a gulp down her throat and shook her head. "This is so important, Thorfinn. What if I'm wrong?"

"Just because we might be wrong about what information there is to find doesn't mean there isn't anything useful to be found there."

She straightened her spine a bit as she stared up at him. "That was a terrifyingly pragmatic answer from you."

A half-smile curving his lips, he shrugged. "You've been a bad influence. What I mean is instead of standing about looking for a document that may or may not even be here, let's just _go_. I'm not exactly looking forward to visiting the Rowles—I haven't seen or spoken to any of my relatives since before my memories returned, and I can't be certain what to expect—but we already know where to go, and whom to speak to, so let's just go and see if that leads us anywhere."

She nodded. "Okay, you're right. Let's go. Wait, we've been over this, you can't go to Hogsmeade looking like . . . well, looking like a wanted fugitive whose face is plastered all over Wizarding Britain, and you can't keep running about with Draco's face, either."

"To be fair, we only agreed not to keep letting his face end up in awkward situations. I don't see how else we're going to sneak me around a busy tavern in a Wizarding village. I'm not exactly travel-sized."

"No, you're obviously . . . ." Her eyes widened and her mouth pressed into a thoughtful line before she repeated the phrase, "Travel-sized, hmm."

"Why don't I like the look your giving me right now?"

"Because you're not going to like the idea that's going through my head, but it's both brilliant _and _a bit insane."

"All the best brilliant ideas are a bit insane, but when_ you_ say something like that, I find myself feeling ready to flee the room in terror."

She snorted a giggle. "You've never once in your life fled a room in terror."

"First time for everything." His forehead creased and his jaw slackened as the specific term she'd repeated back to him crossed his mind. "Oh, oh you wouldn't _dare_."

Pulling up the leg of her jeans, she withdrew her snakewood wand from her boot. "You wouldn't be recognized."

"I also wouldn't be able to _talk_."

Tipping her head to one side, she murmured, "You say that like it's supposed to be a deterrent."

His shoulders drooped as he scowled down at her. If it weren't for the fact that it absolutely _was_ a brilliant idea, he'd be putting up much more of a fight about it. "I hate you."

"You adore me."

Scowl darkening, he folded his arms across his chest and looked away. "Just get on with it."

* * *

Salazar had taken nearly as much coaxing as his dad before he stopped rasping balefully at his mum, seemingly miffed his glare was still_ only_ an angry look, and allowed the possibly-mad witch to transfigure him into a necklace. She assured him it was only temporary—she'd only keep him in that form of pseudo-stasis for as long as was absolutely necessary for safe travel—and reminded him he was not the only one who was about to be altered for the sake of their own protection.

As they came out of Apparition on a street in Hogsmeade, the Hogshead within eyeline, she could feel the weight of an irritated gaze on her face.

Turning her attention to the notably large and weighty Norwegian forest cat in arms, with its thick coat of golden fur, she met the feline's distinctly displeased blue eyes. "Oh, now stop," she said in a soothing tone as she set him on the cobblestone road beside her feet. "I promised you I'll change you back as soon as we're safely inside somewhere no one will see you, didn't I?"

The 'cat' unleashed an impressive hiss and turned, trotting off in the direction of the pub with an angry flick of its bushy tail.

She was trying hard not to laugh at his circumstances—she wouldn't appreciate him giggling at her if she had to run about as an otter—pressing her lips together as she hurried after her visibly annoyed Viking-kitty.


	21. Chapter 21

**Sorry for the delayed post. Holidays are just murder -_-**

**Canon-related note****: **For those who've only seen the films, the Malfoys didn't walk away from the Battle of Hogwarts. Narcissa and Draco didn't turn their backs on the fighting and stroll off with Lucius scrambling after them like a coward relieved to finally have an out. In the _DH _book, Narcissa and Lucius actually run into the fray, without even the thought to fight, without even caring to defend themselves, searching for Draco (and there is no completely awkward hug that Voldemort gives Draco, because there's no scene of him crossing back over battle lines after Harry's faked death).

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy always looked both out of place and as though there was no place they fit _more_, whenever they walked through the gates of the Hogwarts castle grounds. Their sleek refinery and glossy sheen—they certainly had gotten back to themselves after the Dark Lord's demise—did not match the roughhewn grey stone, some of which was still not yet back where it should be following the war, nor the shadowed, fear-evoking backdrop of the Dark Forest that edged the property. Yet, their regal bearing, with their postures so poised and perfect it nearly looked painful, and the era-less style of their impeccable robes seemed to belong nowhere else in the world except _there_, at a castle built for the very sake of housing magic in all its forms.

It was possibly the one thing about them that Minerva McGonagall could honestly say she admired—their ability to look as though they owned the very ground beneath their feet, no matter where they stood. Well, that and their sense of family, perhaps, but that was sort of it. That did raise a curious question, however. The Malfoys did have a long and close history with the families that branched out from the Slytherin line, tracing back before the Founding, in fact—did they now view Hermione, with her true lineage revealed to them, as family?

As the impeccably-attired and coifed couple drew close to the castle doors, Minerva moved down the wide stone steps to meet them halfway.

"Thank you for coming," she said, her voice almost impossibly low as she nodded, slapping on a stiff smile for the sake of appearance—not that anyone was around to witness this strained moment. "The reason for your visit has been cataloged as discussing donations to the school's continued restoration."

Narcissa's perfect, mauve-painted lips dipped at the corners in a thoughtful frown as she nodded. "Then I suppose we had better make sure to donate a_ notable _contribution to your efforts before we leave today. Hadn't we, Lucius?"

Lucius' shoulders moved in an already exhausted shrug. Money was coming to mean less and less to him these days. They had more of it than the current members of the Malfoy family could spend in their lifetimes, and everyone knew it—but that was the thing. _Everyone _knew it, so no matter how much they spent, or what cause they lavished money upon, it didn't actually matter, because it was something they would not be able to do if they hadn't such financial freedom.

"Of course. Now, shall we?"

"We will be in my office. The walls and lift have been charmed against eavesdropping, and the portraits, well, ever since Helena caught up with me in a blank corridor, I've had them under the same charm. Dumbledore's portrait doesn't even know what time of day it is."

The pale-haired couple each raised their brows at her.

Minerva shrugged in an offhanded manner. "I have a morning routine which now includes mixing a Confundus in with the Muffliato,_ just_ for him. As far as any portrait inhabitants are aware, Helena Ravenclaw's occasional appearance in my office is simply another of the things about the castle out of place since War's End."

Now it was Lucius' turn for a thoughtful frown as the Headmistress turned on her heel and began leading them up to the castle doors. "You certainly seem to have thought of everything, Minerva."

The elder witch smirked and nodded. "Yes. You know, when I was a student, the Sorting Hat struggled over whether to put me in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw?"

The Malfoys exchanged a glance while they followed her. That certainly explained why Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Granger got on so well.

It was not lost on either of them that The Grey Lady stood in a corner of the Headmaster's Office that was not visible from any of the portraits vantage points. Sooner than they could ask about this particular precaution, Minerva waved a dismissive hand. "She spends more and more time in my office these days as she's become quite comfortable here. However, for the sake of appearing as though she's off wandering the castle, when she doesn't feel like leaving, she goes over there."

Helena looked up from where she sat on the floor, seeming to have been playing with a loose thread on her robes until she heard her friend's voice. "_She_ is quite capable to speak for herself, thank you."

Minerva rolled her eyes ever so slightly and hissed under her breath, "Here we go." Louder, she said to the specter directly, "Sorry, Helena, I did not mean to speak for you."

Floating to her feet and hovering over to them in silence, Helena nodded, though she certainly appeared as though she'd had a retort prepared. They might be friends, however Helena had always possessed an argumentative streak, and at least once a day she satisfied her urge for feisty debate by sassing Minerva into a lighthearted bit of bickering. But then, Minerva usually seemed to understand this about her and entertained it. That she was so quick to apologize just now clearly indicated this was not a time for the relaxing exercise of arguing over inconsequential things.

"Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy," Minerva said with another sweep of her hand, "may I formally introduce Lady Helena Ravenclaw."

The Malfoys both bent their heads in gestures of greeting. As they raised their heads, they each could not help noticing that the ghost's attention was fixed on Lucius' face.

His grey eyes widened and his brows pinched together. "Is there an issue, Lady Ravenclaw?"

Minerva wasn't quite sure she knew what was happening as Helena's misty grey cheeks darkened a little.

"Lady . . . ?" Helena breathed the word in what sounded like wonderment. Sure, her title as a specter haunting the castle was 'the GreyLady', but to be called Lady _Ravenclaw_? "Why, I never thought I would hear myself addressed as such."

Sooner than any of the room's living occupants could think of something to say, the ghost drew uncomfortably close to Lucius' person. She peered up into his face in a disconcerting, unblinking way.

He desperately wanted to backpedal, but refused to give up any ground to this intrusion of his personal space. "May I help you, Milady?"

"Are you really a Malfoy?" she asked, her attention rapt on his face. "I simply mean . . . you have the bearing and colouring, but . . . ."

One brow arching severely, he echoed, "_But_?"

Helena's semi-transparent lips pursed in consideration as she puzzled over just how to state her observation tactfully. "But you are quite a bit taller than I would have imagined . . . and you are _far _more striking than your ancestor was."

Narcissa's own lips folded in on a half-smile as she glanced at the floor. Minerva's eyebrows lifted as she made a small, thoughtful sound.

Lucius, for his part, did not seem to know how to respond. He was well aware his ancestor Armand's attempt at courting Helena Ravenclaw had not so much been spurned as simply ignored—an attempt which he later dropped entirely, as it set him square in the crosshairs of that dreadful and vengeful Baron. Lucius had believed that, well, he wasn't really certain what he had believed about her memories of Armand Malfoy, as he was hadn't actually considered it at all until this moment. He supposed, if anything, he would have thought she gave him so little consideration that she did not recall very much about him, at all, let alone how striking he might or might not have been.

He was accustomed to intimidating people with his bearing or his status, or to at the very least inspiring annoyance and hatred of the sort that went unspoken in mixed company lest it be taken as a grave insult, but this? This . . . doe-eyed stare? Lucius Malfoy had not the faintest notion how to handle _that_.

Darting his gaze about the room as he pondered what to say, he finally settled for a clipped smile and a polite nod. "Well, I suppose a 'thank you' is in order, then."

Helena beamed up at him and seemed to fidget in place where she hovered above the carpet, so very unlike her usual behavior that it took Minerva a strained moment to recall that despite how long she'd been a tragic spirit haunting the halls of Hogwarts, Helena Ravenclaw was only a _young woman_. A young woman who's notable part of her more recent story—since Minerva now knew the entirety of that fiasco with the Horcruxes—was that she had been charmed into revealing the hiding place of her mother's diadem by a youthful, _handsome _Tom Riddle.

Minerva winced, though it was a good-natured sort of expression. She caught the glint of humor in Narcissa's sharp blue eyes, however. Apparently, the pale-haired elder witch found the specter's apparent infatuation with her husband absolutely hilarious. Oh, how Minerva would love to be a fly on the foyer wall in Malfoy Manor when the couple arrived home after this.

So much for hoping the Grey Lady's presence might serve as an unsettling reminder to the Malfoys to withhold nothing about their intentions for, and connection to, Hermione.

"Might we all get to the point of this 'tea'?"

The Malfoys and the enamored ghost all snapped their attention to Minerva McGonagall at her slightly impatient prodding.

"Of course," they said, one after another, in tones that ran from confused to abashed to quietly amused.

* * *

"Bloody madman," Draco said in a hissing whisper as braced himself on his elbows and looked about.

On the staircase leading down into the cellar, he had found a tripwire. He'd stepped over it, neatly and carefully . . . only to get caught by a second, far more well camouflaged wire on the steps below. He had narrowly missed triggering a shock charm as he landed hard on the floor on his stomach.

He looked back over his shoulder at the staircase as he got his bearings. If the intruder hit the first tripwire, they'd have broken a bone—if not their neck—in the tumble down the steps. However, if they bypassed that, as Draco had, the second wire would land them in crippling paralysis, he'd only missed the field of the shock charm, himself, because he had suspected such a thing awaited, and despite his panic as he fell, he threw his body to the side, refusing to land in a direct line with the foot of the staircase.

He might be growing to despise Antonin Dolohov more and more with every passing breath, but he was also beginning to feel an odd, grudging admiration for the bastard. These traps really were ingenious.

Rolling gently onto his side, he winced. There was a chance he might've cracked a rib upon impact with the gritty, uneven basement floor. Touching a hand to his midsection, he tested carefully for any tender spots.

He exhaled, deep and grateful, finding what was bound to be no more than some spectacular bruising. Yup, he knew precisely what he was going to ask for from Granger in payment for this. He was going to insist she make good on her idea to talk him up to Astoria Greengrass, tell her he was a goddamned unsung hero of the War! Maybe . . . maybe, since everyone in Wizarding Britain was under the impression he and Granger had been sleeping together as it was, she could woefully lament to Astoria about the loss of him as a lover despite their continued friendship. Yes, that would be the recompense for this sort of unnecessary physical harm befalling his person in pursuit of assisting Granger and Rowle. Hermione Granger would shout from the bloody rooftops that Draco Malfoy was a goddamned war-winning sex god, for pity's sake!

Okay, so _perhaps_ the fall had jarred his mind just a bit. . . . Shouting from the rooftops was a bit excessive, sensibly, he'd settle for Hermione simply having a pleasant, Pro-Draco-Malfoy chat with Astoria. He nodded, _now_ he was making sense, again.

Rolling onto his back, Draco simply let himself breathe for a few moments. He permitted the pain to subside before he moved again.

But he'd bloody well had enough of fretting that every other step might be his end, or at the very least his maiming. Snatching up his wand from where it had landed in the fall, he cast a reveal charm and sent it across the floor, stretching the magic until it covered the entirety or it, the bounds of the charm brushing against the basement walls.

Nothing more popped out at him . . . . But something in one of the far corners did resist the charm. A shadow shuddered, like a breeze traveling beneath a dark blanket.

Narrowing his eyes, Draco climbed to his feet. He glanced about—it was clear someone had, indeed, been living here. There was a rumbled bedroll in the center of the room, surrounded by papers and scattered documents. Something about the sight unsettled him. There was an overturned table . . . signs of a struggle? Or maybe a lashing out in frustration? The second did, certainly, sound far more like something he'd expect to find any place Dolohov was calling home, even temporarily.

The answer as to which it was, more than likely, lay in those scattered papers, but first thing was first. Satisfying his curiosity about that strange shroud in the corner took precedence over satisfying his curiosity about Dolohov's motivations.

His wand gripped tight, Draco stepped back from the immediate scene of whatever scuffle or meltdown had occurred and moved toward the far right corner of the room, where he'd noted the disturbance in his reveal charm.

He cast the charm again—perhaps the reason for said disturbance was that this was something directly shielded, and his charm had been spread thin. Still, this section of the floor refused to unveil itself to him.

Groaning, he rolled his eyes and tried once more. The concealment charm, he could sense after a few moments of struggling to undo it, actually seemed to be fighting _against_ his efforts.

Then, with a pulse that rippled through the room, the concealment fell away. Just like that.

Draco's brows drew upward and his wandarm fell to his side. "Oh," was all he managed to say.

* * *

"What do you mean her parents are missing?"

Narcissa and Lucius exchanged a glance, setting their tea cups down in a strangely synchronized movement. "Her Muggle parents," he said, nodding, "they've vanished. The children are looking for clues to their whereabouts as we speak."

Minerva frowned, holding up a hand. "Looking_ how,_ precisely?"

Narcissa shrugged. "It was a very short missive, with reason as you can imagine. They did not provide details. But we are speaking of Miss Granger, Thorfinn Rowle, and my son. Though young Mr. Rowle can be a bit . . . reckless, the other two would proceed intelligently, and more importantly, cautiously."

"Cautious? My sister? Dear Lord, being raised by Muggles certainly must've changed her," Helena said with a strained grin. She flitted unexpectedly toward the far wall of the office, the one which would lead her out into open air rather than back into the castle if she were to slip through it.

"Where are you off to?" the Headmistress asked, arching a brow.

"Since Sabina's visit, I have been free of my binding to not only Ravenclaw Tower, but to the castle. I simply haven't left, yet."

"You're leaving the grounds? You've not been outside in literally a thousand years," Narcissa pointed out, her tone a shade concerned.

"I'll be back." Helena nodded, a determined scowl tugging at her misty features.

"That's good, I suppose," Minerva said with a nod, "but that does not answer the question of where you're going."

Helena shrugged vanishing from sight, though her voice remained, answering, "To_ find_ my sister and make sure she is all right."

Silence followed the specter's literal disappearing act. All three living occupants of the room looked around at one another.

"Perhaps we actually should've tried to stop her," Lucius said with a pensive frown.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"_What are you doing?"_

_Helena looked up as she whirled around, tucking her wand behind her back. "Hmm?"_

_Sabina's brows pinched upward and she stood on her toes, attempting to peer over her sister's shoulder, despite how ineffectual said attempt was on simple account of their height difference. "I asked 'what are you doing?'"_

_The elder girl frowned and shrugged, in that way she often did when dismissing the curiosity of Mother's 'sweet little bird.' "Nothing that would concern you. And what, exactly, is the reason for your presence in my bed chamber?"_

_Mirroring her sister's expression, Sabina fidgeted in place—she never was much good at holding still for very long. Uncle Godric often surmised that if they could bottle up the little girl's excess energy, they could probably use it instead of firewood to heat the castle during the winter. "Auntie Helga sent me to fetch you."_

_Though she succeeded in holding back an impatient groan, Helena's eyes rolled. Hard. "Sent you to fetch me for what? Oh, come now! You are far too smart to think I was asking for information bit-by-bit like this."_

_Arching a brow, Sabina seemed to weigh Helena's words before she nodded, clearly deciding herself satisfied with her sister's mention that she was not simply smart. but 'far _too _smart.' "The robes you asked the elves to mend are ready."_

"_Oh!" To the younger witch's evident surprise, Helena smiled. "That is good news, I have been waiting for them." Without thought, she crossed the room, following Sabina as the smaller girl backpedaled out through the door._

_After a few steps down the corridor, however, Helena realized she did not hear the endlessly annoying little patter of the tiny wretch's footfalls behind her. Her eyes shooting wide, she turned on her heel and stormed back toward her bed chamber. Certain enough, there in front of her bed stood Sabina._

"_What are you—?"_

"_Are you going somewhere?" Sabina asked, oblivious to her sister's aggravated whisper as she turned to look up at Helena. "It appears you are packing for a trip."_

"_I__—well, I__ . . . ." As much as Helena wanted to seethe at the girl for invading her privacy, there was something in the way those large brown eyes blinked up at her. But that did not ease the sudden icy tension in Helena's gut. No one could know her plans!_

_Her shoulders slumped and she forced a scowl onto her face. "It is none of your concern."_

"_Oh!" Unexpectedly, perhaps, Sabina's eyes light up and she bounced in place, her wild hair seeming to take on a life of its own as it followed suit, bouncing up and down in the wake of her movements. "Is it a secret?"_

_Again, Helena's eyes widened, this time in realization rather than fear. Swapping her scowl for a serene smile, she nodded. "Why, yes! It is a secret. That is why I got short with you for being in here. No one can no where I am going."_

"_Can I go with you?"_

_Oh, dear. Helena had not expected that. With a sigh, she caught her sister's hand in her own and pulled her to sit down with her upon the chaise by the window. "No. I have to go alone."_

_Her tiny face scrunching up, Sabina pouted. "But I can keep a secret! You know I can!"_

"_Oh, of _course_ I know you can!" Helena laughed gently and hugged her sister to her. "But that is why you must remain here. Someone has to protect this secret for me. It is a very important task. When I leave, no one can know."_

_Sabina pulled away enough to look into Helena's eyes. "How long will you be gone?"_

_Helena cast her attention downward for a few strained heartbeats before she was able meet Sabina's gaze. "Not long. However, Mother will worry if she learns I have left the castle. So, you must promise me that you will tell no one that you knew I was going."_

_Beaming as she nodded, Sabina said, "I promise! Will you bring me back a present when you return?"_

_Her mouth opening and closing before she could work up a response, Helena gave a tight-lipped grin and nodded. "Of—of course I will."_

_Just as Sabina seemed about to say something more, her attention snagged on something in the opposite corner of the room. The little girl gasped and tore out of her sister's arms, running toward the raggedy doll on the floor._

"_Oh, no!" Sabina's face pinched in anger as she lifted the toy into her arms. "What did you do to Marguerite?!"_

_Helena didn't know if she was saddened or relieved when the younger girl seemed to completely forget all about secret trips and souvenirs and promises. Shaking her head, she let out a puff of air as Sabina started railing at her about the tatty state of her favored doll._

_Maybe when she did deign to return here, she would be back a new doll for Sabina to replace poor Marguerite._

* * *

Though she couldn't really breathe, she could feel the cleanness of the air our here, so very different, so much lighter than the natural mustiness of the castle corridors. The summer breeze coming across from the shores of the Black Lake were gentle and though she also could not detect differences in temperatures, she imagined that delicate, sweeping wind to be warm.

Helena talked a good game, but in truth, she had not the foggiest idea how, precisely, to track down her sister, but then, she couldn't simply sit idle in that office chatting when Sabina might be putting herself in danger, not that that would be anything new . . . . Even if there had been quite a lovely sight to keep her imagination occupied while the living talked.

Remaining transparent—she didn't want to panic any poor passersby minding their own business, after all—she wandered down the road that led away from the castle grounds. She'd never actually tried to leave the castle before, never tried to connect with the living, despite that her personal reluctance on the matter didn't seem to stop them from seeking her out every once in a while over the centuries.

She halted mid-hover as it occurred to her another thing she'd never tried to do all this time. Ghosts couldn't perform conventional magic, everyone knew that, but there was a deeper, older magic, wasn't there? The sort that required not flesh and blood to perform, but emotion and connection, maybe even a longing to do _something _right.

Blinking hard, she turned and looked up at the looming, ancient greatness of Hogwarts. The Grey Lady forced a gulp down her throat as she clasped her hands before her in a gesture of forgiveness—of piety and humility, the latter of which she'd never been very good at.

Sniffling, she murmured, "Mother? I know you are not really here, that you moved on long ago, but wherever you are please—_please_—if you can hear me, if you can feel my intent, help me. I know I did not always treat Sabina well, but now I am scared for her. She might need me! Give me some notion, some direction, to find my sister. I beg you, please."

She knew perfectly well what Sabina had told her, perfectly well that she'd indeed felt the truth of it in her heart, freeing her from her confinement as she understood Mother would truly not have held such a grudge all this time. The forgiveness she'd sought so sincerely was from herself. Still, as she floated there above the cobblestone, hands pressed together, eyes closed, and head bowed, she felt she couldn't believe Mother did actually forgive her.

It never felt quite as true, though, as it did while she waited there for an answer, for some inkling. For . . . for anything at all.

After a few painfully silent, painfully _nothing_ moments, Helena nodded. She let her hands fall back to her sides and hung her head. This lack of response did not surprise her, but it did hurt. Odd how getting exactly the non-answer she'd expected could be so wounding.

_Follow the road . . . ._

Snapping her head up, Helena looked around. That voice, that whisper . . . she could not be certain it wasn't her imagination, but she wanted to believe it be more than that.

Putting her back to the castle, she followed the road with her gaze. The outside world hadn't changed_ that_ drastically over the last thousand years. This path still led to the same place it had when she was a living, breathing girl.

Imagined or not, her heart swelled a little as she let herself _believe_ the voice whispering to her might just be that of their mother. A watery smile playing on her lips, she blinked back tears as she nodded.

"Thank you, Mother."

* * *

Hermione pushed open the door to the antiquated pub, bracing for the scent of alcohol and various types of smoke to hit her face. Thorfinn ran inside ahead of her and she rolled her eyes as she stomped after him.

"Hold on, um, Cat!" She couldn't very well shout out the name Thorfinn in the middle of the establishment, even if it wasn't very crowded at the moment.

To her relief, the 'cat' did, in fact, hold on. She nearly expected him to keep going just to spite her for referring to him as the animal she'd transfigured him into. As he halted, however, he gave her a look over his furry shoulder that put the one he'd granted her outside to shame.

As if she should've known what his animal transfiguration would be? He probably thought he'd change into some large, ferocious canine. That consideration in mind, she could understand why he might be a bit . . . miffed that his form turned out to be that of a large, fluffy feline. But he was so adorable!

She didn't imagine he'd take to kindly to her trying to cuddle him like this, so instead she opted for merely catching up to him. "You can't run off," she said in a hissing whisper, stooping to lift the enormous cat into her arms, and dear Lord was _that_ a struggle when he was deciding to let his body go limp in her hold. Bloody giant brat. "Stay close, people will mistake you for my familiar, Crookshanks. You wander off, they might notice you're not half-Kneazle."

Oh, she missed Crookshanks. Crookshanks with his sweet, smooshed face, who was supposed to be safe with her parents. Lord, she hoped wherever they were, all_ three_ of them were safe.

"Don't put 'im on the bar," a crotchety voice snapped.

Hermione and Thorfinn both looked up—fine picture they made, a witch and her cat responding in unison—to see an elderly wizard glaring at her. An elderly wizard who was distinctly _not_ Aberforth Dumbledore. But Dumbledore or no Dumbledore, she knew she'd get nowhere with the barkeep if she egged him on, and he did appear as though he was already half way there all on his own.

"No, sir, no!" She forced a bright grin and settled Thorfinn on a stool. "No bar-sitting familiars here."

The wizard behind the bar huffed silently, but nodded. "Fine, fine. Just keep a steady eye on your beast. What'll you 'ave?"

"Well . . . ." She thought asking a question might go over better were she a paying customer, and she never had gotten to order anything harder than a butter beer the last time she was in Hogsmeade and there _wasn't_ a war raging. But drinking without Thorfinn—worse, drinking without him while he was literally right there, but unable to join her—seemed like a bad idea, too.

"Well," the witch started again, "I will have a pumpkin ale and I think some Fire Whiskey in a saucer for the cat."

A loud, rumbling purr erupted from the feline while the barkeep gave her a quizzical look. "Whiskey for the cat?" he asked, not as skeptical of the request as she thought he might be, after all, animal companions did sometimes have bizarre quirks.

She shrugged, scrambling for a reasonable explanation. "He's a recent Irish import."

"Ah, of course."

As the old man turned to prepare her unusual order, she could sense Thorfinn's gaze on her. Turning a frown in his direction, she said in a hushed voice, "Don't look at me like that. It's the most convincing thing I could think of in a pinch."

"Here you are, Miss. See the cat stays on the stool."

Nodding, she accepted the saucer and set it before Thorfinn, waiting for him to lap at it before she took her mug of ale. Paying for her order, she took a long, nerve-quenching swig before she returned her attention to the barkeep.

The old man arched a brow at her expectant look. "Something else I can help you with?"

"Um, yes, actually. I was wondering where the proprietor of this establishment might be?"

He frowned pensively, stroking his long, scraggly beard. "Aberforth? How do you know 'im?"

"Oh, sorry. My name is Hermione Granger—"

"Tha's why you look so familiar!" The man tapped a finger against his temple. "Thought I'd seen you somewhere before. You an' your friends fought alongside 'im at the Battle of Hogwarts!"

"Exactly, yes," she said, relief at a plausible story popping up all on its own flooding through her. She took another swig. "He helped us immensely during the end of the war, but we never got a chance to see him again after that to say thank you. I thought . . . ." She cleared her throat. "I thought now that everything has been peaceful and calm, it would be a nice time to just pop in and tell him how much his assistance meant to us."

"Sure, sure." The barkeep nodded in understanding, seeming suddenly warmer now that he recognized that he was in the company of a war hero. She thought if she'd mentioned that all beforehand, he might've filled her order on the house. "I'd love to fetch 'im for you, but I've no idea where he is."

Hermione exchanged a surprised look with her cat—with her _cat_, not even caring that that might look odd given her state of shock—and asked, "What?"

He shrugged and waved about. "Two days, now, I think. He said he had some business t' handle and asked if I could mind the place 'til he got back. Tha's all I know."

She couldn't help but frown, her frame drooping on the spot. "Oh, I see. Thank . . . thank you."

This could all be a strange coincidence, a . . . proverbial, unintended red herring in her search for the Grangers, but it was just all so odd. Antonin Dolohov was missing, but now so was Aberforth Dumbledore? There was every chance none of those things were in _any_ way related. But if Aberforth possibly knew about his brother's plans, could he be the one who was hiding her parents?

She braced the heels of her palms against the sides of her forehead. "Oh, this is just too much to think about." Sighing, she lifted her head and looked at her currently-feline betrothed. "I suppose then we should be going."

The doors came crashing open then, and everyone in the establishment drew their wands on the sudden noise. In any other scenario, she might've laughed at the momentarily wandless Thorfinn unleashing a loud, angry hiss in the direction of the entryway.

There stood Draco, a bedraggled grey-haired man beside him. He had the man's arm pulled around his shoulders and that salt-and-pepper head was bowed, but Hermione knew exactly who it was.

"Oh my God!" Immediately she put away her wand, along with the other occupants of the pub, and hurried over to the door, the little old barkeep and the Norwegian Forest cat on her heels. "Aberforth? What the bloody hell happened?"

Draco appeared utterly bewildered as he guided the elder wizard to the nearest seat and helped him into it. "I don't know what, but I'm pretty sure I know who."

A chill rippled through the pit of her stomach as she and Draco said in the same breath, "Dolohov."


	23. Chapter 23

My apologies for not updating last week. For those who missed either the post on my FB page, or the notation I'd left in this fic's summary at the time (or even the A/N in my other fic Heathens mentioning it), I was struck with writer's block. First time in years that I've had to deal with that, but it broke 2 days ago, after which I proceeded to write nearly 9k words across two new fics, and here we are, so not only did the block break, but it seems more like a bursting dam now that I think about it? Anyways, welcome back for another chapter of _Daughter of Slytherin_. 😉

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"I noticed him skulking about the other night," Aberforth said in a gruff whisper as the barkeep, who turned out to be surprisingly knowledgeable about first aid and medicinal magic—the witch would imagine he'd tended many a drunken-brawl-related injury during his friendship with the Hogsheads' proprietor—checked the severity of his injuries. "So I followed him."

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance at that, she thought she could even see a puzzled expression on Thorfinn's currently furry face. Draco, for his part, had yet to ask about the presence of a cat that at least he would recognize as _not_ her familiar, and lack of one highly visible Viking wizard, but she thought he'd have questions as soon as the situation calmed a little. She was braced already for how he'd react to Thorfinn-the-giant-fluffy-cat.

And . . . further braced for how unhappy Thorfinn would be with said reaction.

Aberforth made his reasoning for whatever had happened sound so . . . spontaneous, which Hermione and Thorfinn knew did _not _match what the barkeep had told them of the younger Dumbledore brother's departure. Draco couldn't know that, however she thought perhaps his ability to detect half-truths had become well honed during his stint as the veritable prince of Slytherin House and that right now said ability was waving a giant red flag at him.

"You followed him?" Hermione asked, trying her best to make her tone merely curious and not suspicious. "I don't understand. If you believed you saw a wanted criminal 'skulking about', why didn't you alert the Ministry rather than trying to investigate the matter yourself?"

"Seems rather a dangerous line of thinking," Draco added, his expression grave with concern—which she thought was probably feigned to, like her, cover up any suspicious vibe he might be giving off. "I'd expect to hear something like this from her or myself, not a wizened elder wizard, sir!"

Hermione hid a wince, unsure if part of Draco's deception was intended to come across sounding as though he was_ scolding _the old man.

Aberforth gave the pale-haired young man a once-over. "Oh, stow it, boy. There's not any age-limit on bravery or . . . foolhardiness, it would seem."

Well, they'd get nowhere if he got all spiky, would they? Frowning, she shook her head. "He doesn't mean anything by it. I still don't understand why you went after him yourself."

"Perhaps it's that I don't trust that the Ministry's as _reformed_ as they're claiming."

Again, Hermione and Draco shared a look. They couldn't say they blamed him for feeling that way, but then he could simply be voicing whatever would make his reasoning look more sound than it appeared at first glance.

"Does beg the question, though," Aberforth said, waving away the barkeep as he muttered a demand that he be brought a bottle of Fire Whiskey, "I know what _I_ was doing there—bastard caught me following him and, well, you found how he left me—but what were you doing there?"

"I was looking for Dolohov, too. Her parents are missing and the Ministry seems to think he might be responsible, so I went to check for myself. Maybe keep the attitude in check, old man. If not for me, you'd still be in a petrified heap in that basement."

Hermione watched Aberforth Dumbledore's face carefully for his reaction—not to Draco's snippiness, but to the mention of a pair of missing Muggle parents. Either he was a better actor than his brother, or he genuinely didn't have anything to do with all of this.

Aberforth scowled, grabbing the bottle the barkeep held out to him by the neck and taking a long swig. After a breath, he nodded. "Suppose you've a point, there. Thank you, then."

"Wasn't the first time you'd seen him around, was it?" she asked, taking a risk if he was being deceptive, but she thought she understood now what had happened.

Another drink and he shook his head, his scraggy grey hair rustling with the movement. "Thought I'd seen him about, lurking in the alleys, but I couldn't be sure. Finally, saw him heading down to the old cul de sac and decided I'd follow him, see what he was up to. Thought if he was hanging about instead of on the run, he had to be up to something, righ'? Told Henry to watch the place, but thought Dolohov would kill me soon as look at me for my troubles if he caught me following him, so I made it sound like I planned to be a way for a bit, in case I didn't make it back."

"That's the part I still don't get."

The old man's shoulders sloped downward. "If he killed me, he wasn't likely to stick with a corpse to worry about. Someone would eventually come looking for me. I wanted to make sure whoever that was didn't put themselves in Dolohov's crosshairs for my sake."

She was reminded of how different the Dumbledore brothers were with that sentiment. Albus Dumbledore didn't go out of his way to protect others unless it served a purpose only known to him, she thought. But then, she also considered that might not be entirely fair to the departed headmaster, yet she knew she was at least somewhat justified in thinking he was a master manipulator, because he _was._ For all of the man's positive qualities, he was one of the least trustworthy people in Wizarding Britain. Not unlike his wildly misrepresented ancestor, Godric Gryffindor.

The world seemed to sway beneath her feet a moment, and she found herself tipping sideways. Draco and Aberforth both made a move to catch her, while the poor cat let out a bizarre, anxious yelping sound. Just as fast, however, she steadied herself and waved them away. The way Aberforth had uttered an agonized hiss through clenched teeth as he'd tried to help her didn't escape her notice.

"Please, I'm okay," she said with a dismissive wave of one hand as she pressed the other against her forehead. "I just realized I've not been eating very much recently. Simply a little light headed, is all. But Aberforth, you're clearly more injured than you're letting on. Let Mr. Henry over their tend you, yeah?"

His eyes narrowing in appraisal, he looked her over before speaking. "I remember you from the Battle. Potter's friend, the clever one."

Smiling weakly, she nodded. "That'd be me, yes."

He nodded back. "Tell you what. I'll let that crabby ol' bastard tend my injuries—"

"Oi!" the aforementioned crabby ol' bastard called out from his place behind the bar.

Aberforth grinned in an almost malicious way and then continued on. "If you go have a lie down in the back for a bit. I'll have your whiny friend over here bring you something to fill up your stomach."

"Whiny, indeed," Draco said, folding his arms across his chest as he scowled. "Do you really not know how to talk to people without insulting them?"

The old man snickered a gruff, wheezy sound. "I haven't insulted her."

Draco flicked his gaze toward Hermione in acknowledgement. "Yeah, well, suppose that makes you smarter than you look. G' on, Granger, he's right, you should rest up a bit if you're not one hundred percent."

She blinked rapidly a few times as she locked her eyes on his. For a moment she thought perhaps she'd lost her ability to comprehend plain English. "What? No, no. I'm fine, really. I want you to show me where Dolohov was hiding out."

Exhaling through his nostrils, Draco Malfoy clamped his hands around Hermione's upper arms, his expression stern. "You. Look. Like. Shit." The witch let out a choked sound of shock at his bluntness, but he went on before she could reply. "It's just a few hours. Okay? You'll eat, rest, and then we'll go. I promise. You won't be any good to anyone if you collapse."

If the Norwegian Forest cat could wear an expression, she would swear he was severely arching a brow at her in agreement with Draco.

"Fine, fine, you're all absolutely correct," she said with a sigh, though she loathed admitting that to a group of men who were all basically telling her what to do.

She turned on and headed for the door Aberforth indicated. It weighed on her as she walked that there seemed no answers he could give her about all this, but maybe, after she'd eaten and rested, her brain would be up to optimum working order once more and she'd figure out how to subtly question him about what information his brother might've shared with him. After they investigated whatever clues Dolohov might've left behind.

"Granger?"

Hermione paused mid-stride, glancing back at Draco over her shoulder. "Hmm?"

"What's with the cat?"

Her eyes widened and she looked toward the floor beside her, where Thorfinn-the-Cat was staring up at her expectantly. "What?" she asked, returning her attention to the Slytherin wizard. "You remember my familiar from Hogwarts, don't you? Crookshanks?" Her brows pinched together in emphasis though she'd kept her voice flat.

He shook his head. "That's . . . ." His gaze settled on the feline, he tipped his head to one side. A loud growl rumbled out of the blue-eyed cat's golden-haired body and suddenly Draco's mouth fell open. Just as fast, he clamped it shut, nodding with widened eyes. "Yes, Crookshanks! How could I forget?"

If the elderly wizards noticed anything odd about the conversation, neither of them gave any indication. When Aberforth had been hauled inside looking like hell warmed over, the few other patrons who'd been in the dank pub had mysteriously had better things to do with their time than hang around there all day.

Satisfied there'd be no more fuss, she continued to the room, the cat following at her heels.

* * *

_Sabina knew what was going on, and yet didn't quite understand what was going on. She remembered that Helena still hadn't returned from her secret trip, she remembered that she'd found Mother crying last week, though she would not tell younger daughter why. She remembered the elves whispering about how Mother wouldn't wake up._

_And now . . . ._

_Swallowing hard, she leaned into her father's side. She tipped her head back to look up at him. In turn, he tipped his chin down, meeting her gaze. Dropping his arm around her to hold her close, he gave a small, tight-lipped smile._

_The expression was meant to be encouraging, strengthening, she knew that, but the tears gathered in his green eyes made it difficult. She forced a smile in response for his benefit._

_Holding in a sigh, she returned her attention to the foreground of the church floor. For days now, people—wizarding folk and Muggle, alike—milled through to see the shrouded figure of her mother on a cushioned table before the dais. It didn't seem real. The candles everywhere, the spices that hung thick in the air for some reason, the constant procession of people with food and wine to the castle's kitchens, as if they needed it . . . . The way Father had spent sunrise to sunset seated right here and would remain until the day Mother was taken to the family crypt. Sabina wasn't quite certain when that would be, she was really only cognizant of the strange detachment she felt. She wondered idly if she would be laid to rest there someday, too. Maybe it was nice. Spacious, perhaps._

_Everything was all right now, though, because Mother was still _here_._

_For a time, they simply sat there and she went on pretending she didn't know that Father was hiding that he was crying._

_It was near sunset when the sound of footfalls—many footfalls—approached the church doors. Only a few proceeded forward, however. Looking up, she saw Uncle Godric, Auntie Helga, and the priest whose name she could never recall coming toward them. Yet, only Auntie paused beside their pew, the men continued on to stand before Mother's body._

_Father gave Sabina a gentle hug and pulled her back enough to meet her gaze. "It is time," he said, standing up as Auntie Helga reached to take the little girl's hands in hers._

_"Time?" Sabina echoed, her brow furrowing._

_Father's expression gave away _everything_ in that moment. He looked . . . he looked like he was feeling so many things Sabina had never seen in him before. Anger, sorrow, loneliness. He was _lost,_ and the very idea of that terrified his daughter._

_"What?" she asked, her small voice sharp and shuddering in the echo chamber of the church. "No, _please_!"_

_Everything that hadn't been real to her yet came crashing down on her in that moment, closing around her heart and squeezing like icy fingers. She tried to pull out of Auntie's firm but gentle grasp, tried to run past the elder witch toward her father._

_"Sabina, sweet little girl, please do not fuss so," Helga murmured, ginger in her movements as she tugged the child along, away from the scene._

_"But they cannot take her! No!" Sabina stamped her feet, attempting to dig in her heels as she was pulled through the church. "Father, do not let them take her! I will _not_ have it!"_

_At any other moment than this, the sound of the diminutive witch's assertive tone would have brought smiles and laughter from the adults who expected so very much from her all the time. Yet now, it brought about the most awful sound she'd ever heard._

_Her father was sobbing._

_Sabina's vision blurred with sudden tears and her throat ached as she tried, once more, to pull away from Auntie Helga's well-intentioned grip. This time she managed to slip free, the entirety of the church filled with the sound of her footfalls as she ran to her father's side._

_She did not, however, hug him. Sabina threw her arms over her mother's body as best she could where the cold form lay. The lack of warmth shocked her, the horrible odor she could only smell now that she had her face pressed against the shroud that covered Mother shocked her, but she couldn't care._

_"I need her, _please_," her voice choked out, broken and garbled, her words just barely intelligible._

_She hardly felt her father's hands close over her shoulders. Rather than trying to remove her from her mother, though, he merely held onto her for a time. He carefully lowered to kneel behind her, letting her have this final moment._

_Sabina Slytherin did not make a sound as she cried. Not a sniffle, not a shuddered breath. Helga pressed a hand to her mouth to hold in a sob of her own as she watched. Godric hung his head, unable to look upon the scene at all, guilt etched in his features._

_Her father's fingers trembled in their hold on her. Something in that drew Sabina's attention. Lifting her head, she looked to her father's face. For the first time in days, his eyes were closed. She could see his throat working as he forced a gulp; he was trying to stop crying._

_With another icy, crushing grasp around her heart, she realized she was making this harder for him. She couldn't do that. No. Without Mother, only _she _was left to protect him now. And the best way she could protect Father in a time such as this would be to show him she would be all right._

_Even if she felt like she wanted to curl up and die so she wouldn't be parted from her mother._

_Raising her hand, she wiped away her own tears with a crooked finger. She turned beneath her father's palms and lifted her gaze. Those familiar green eyes had just opened, bleary and damp, they fixed on hers._

_"I will go with Auntie now, Father and leave you and Uncle to what must be done." She nodded, continuing in a low voice, "I am sorry I made a fuss."_

_Salazar's lips pressed together in a shaky smile. Wrapping his arms around her in a hug, he held her for a few silent heartbeats. "Thank you, my brave little serpent."_

* * *

"Hermione?"

Thorfinn's gruff whisper in her ear woke her. Blinking a few times—goddammit, her cheeks were wet—she met his gaze. After she'd eaten and been left alone, she had locked the door and dispelled the transfiguration on Thorfinn and little Salazar. Now both of them watched her with worried eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, shifting to lie on her back and wiping at her tears. "I really do hate crying."

He pulled her tighter against him, playfully slapping her hands out of the way to wipe at her cheeks, himself. When she uttered a teary laugh, he smiled gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I remembered my mother's funeral. Not much to talk about," she said with a sniffle. "I just . . . I think this situation with the Grangers coaxed out that particular memory."

"I wasn't allowed to attend," he said, nodding. "At least not for longer than a few moments when my father and mother visited the church to pay respects, though English funerary customs were very strange to them. They were fond of your mother and her wit."

Hermione laughed once more, a lighter sound this time, and sniffled again. "Well, she was known for it. Why weren't you allowed?"

"Your father thought I would distract you, and not in a good way." Thorfinn shrugged against her. "I was a disruptive influence and he well knew it. I was angry back then—"

"You were?"

"Of course!" He sighed. "You were to be my wife someday, my place at a time like that should've been by your side."

The iciness in her chest left by her dreamed memory faded, his words warming her so effortlessly. "You said you were angry back then. What changed?"

"I got older." He frowned pensively. "Got perspective. I understood that were I in your father's place dealing with a little Viking prince who only seemed capable of making his betrothed laugh hysterically or scream in anger, I'd have probably made the same decision."

"He knew us both so well," she said with a smile.

"I think he did, yeah." He sat up, moving her gently with him. "So, you ready to go check out Dolohov's hideout"

She reached toward the night table, scooping up Salazar in a delicate movement. "I think so, as long as we don't forget to come back and try to talk to Aberforth about his brother afterward. Oh, but . . . you know what leaving this room means . . . ."

Thorfinn groaned and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Cat. I get it. Oh, by the way, thank you for the Fire Whiskey."

"I know it's not ideal, but we're getting away with it and once we're out of public sight, I'll dispel the transfiguration again."

"You had better make this up to me," he said in a low, rumbling tone that was loaded with all manner of suggestiveness.

"I will." She granted him a smug grin, grateful once again for how easily he distracted her from her pains and helped her focus on matters at hand. "Already have an idea on that."

"Oh? Care to enlighten me?"

Hermione leaned close, nibbling playfully at his bottom lip before answering. "Locking us up in a bedroom for a weekend of drinking and shagging when this is all over?"

His brows drew upward and he pursed his lips. "Ooh, you _are _good." He kissed her breathless, then closed his eyes and unwound his arms from her. "All right, I'm ready. Cat me."


	24. Chapter 24

Updates to _Revenir_, _Creatures in Cages_, White Wolves, and _Consecration _are in the works 😊

Research for this chapter (as it's a common misconception that cats see in black & white): The vision of the average cat is similar to that of a color-blind human. They can see blues and greens, but shades in the red range can be confusing for them. The mention of 'greyness' later in the chapter will be for a reason obvious within that scene and not because of cat-vision.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

"So you didn't see _anything_ else?"

Draco rolled his eyes as he led Hermione and Thorfinn-the-cat in the direction of the abandoned cul de sac. "What part of 'I was a bit distracted with lugging a fully-grown human being out of there' was beyond your typically vast comprehension? I managed to get Dolohov's little minefield disarmed so I wouldn't trip and drop the old man into a shock-trap or something, but no. Other than that, I didn't really get a good look at anything."

"Sorry, sorry," she said shaking her head as she followed along, pressing the tips of her fingers against her temples. "This has just been an incredibly long couple of weeks, and it's like I simply cannot catch a break. I'm under_ quite_ a bit of stress, you understand? I mean, I was supposed to be relaxing for a few days and—as Thorfinn pointed out—I couldn't even do that properly." The currently-transfigured wizard meowed in agreement with his own assessment.

Draco glanced back over his shoulder at the cat, giving a head shake of his own. "Still can't believe he let you turn him into a cat."

"Malfoy, you of all people should remember that neither the caster, not the . . . cast_ee, _so to speak, has any control over what shape their animal transfiguration would take. Otherwise, why would you have ever chosen to take the form of a—"

Her question was cut off rather abruptly as Draco whirled around and shot out an arm, clamping a hand over her mouth. "Don't. Even. Say it."

The witch's brows shot up at the gesture and the Viking cat's ears flattened against his skull as a growl started rumbling out of him.

Turning his attention to the angry ball of golden fluff, Draco arched a brow and pulled back his hand. "Sorry, but let's leave it at 'turning into a cat would've been better.'"

"You know an interesting thing I've observed about animal transfiguration?" Hermione began, trying to keep on the subject while avoiding bringing up the Barty-Jr.-as-Professor-Moody-turned-the-Malfoy-heir-into-a-bloody-_ferret_ incident.

Recognizing her attempt to get them back on track before a cat-vs-wizard scuffle could break out, Draco nodded. Turning on his heel, he started leading them along the road once more. "What's that?"

"Well, after observing Professor McGonagall taking on the form of a cat and the Marau—" She realized belatedly that not everyone was aware of the nickname for Harry's father and his cohorts. "And learning that Harry's dad took the form of a stag, Remus Lupin wasn't an animagus, but he was a werewolf . . . and their Patronuses _all_ took those same forms as they did while transfigured. Ergo, the shape of one's Patronus can be predicted by their animal form and vice-versa."

"So what you're saying is if I could ever summon up a Patronus, it would be a bloody f . . . oh, damn, almost said it, myself." He chuckled, nodding. "You're a tricky one."

"I wasn't trying to be." The witch shrugged. "I hadn't really thought about it before, I just realized . . . . Oh, no."

At her stricken tone, Draco couldn't help stopping again to look back at her. "What?"

Wincing, she looked from him to the cat, and back. "That means if I were ever transfigured into an animal, I'd be an otter!"

Draco's eyebrows drew upward, but he stood strangely frozen, simply staring at her. He could swear the expression on her face was daring him to laugh. Thorfinn, even if he hadn't been a feline at the moment, clearly did not fear the wrath of his betrothed, because a sound that was half-hissing, half-hacking, and quite evidently all laughter, erupted from the cat.

Draco gracefully hid a smirk as Hermione turned her attention on Thorfinn. "Oh, shut up, you," she snapped, shouldering past Draco. From here, she could see the shop at the end of the cul de sac, so it didn't matter who of them led the way forward now.

They continued on in silence the rest of the way along the road.

The bustle of Hogsmeade died out the closer they drew to the shop. A few steps more and the only things to be heard were the echoes of their own footfalls against the cobblestone and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees that sparsely dotted the pavement. What the hell had happened over here, she wondered. For a building or two to be rundown or abandoned was not anything so out of the ordinary, but the entire cul de sac? Strange.

Actually . . . the awareness of how odd that was set her a bit more on edge than she'd already been. She could feel an uncomfortable crawling sensation in the pit of her stomach. God, no wonder Antonin Dolohov liked this place. The entire atmosphere was just as unsettling as the man, himself.

She hadn't even realized this area existed. The warm, sunlit, languid sort of busyness of the rest of Hogsmeade seemed miles away rather than yards, right now.

"Why is this place so . . . desolate?" she asked, her voice spilling out in a whisper that still felt too loud for the stunted quiet the of the air around them.

Draco's voice was low to match hers. "I've no idea." Earlier, he'd been so focused on the shop, so focused on keeping an eye out for Dolohov's traps, that he'd not really paid much mind to the surrounding area, save for the fact that it was abandoned, and thus no witnesses to his own trespassing on the broken down property. No one to wonder what he was up to . . . .

No one to notice if something horrific had befallen him, which it very nearly had.

Merlin's fucking beard. His own, incredibly sudden, cognizance of how very_ desolate_ this section of the village was made the skin along his shoulder itch and tingle uncomfortably.

"There you are!"

The pair spun toward the voice behind them, wands drawn, mouths open in shouts of surprise that—gratefully—never actually came. Thorfinn, however, was shocked in his own right by a completely different matter. He'd discovered that he had possession of the _complete_ set of senses a normal cat would whilst transfigured into one.

He'd sensed something slipping along at their backs. When he looked toward the sensation, there she was, strangely shadowy, but then as she caught up to them, she exploded into full color . . . well, full greyness, anyway.

Huh. This was probably why cats were constantly staring off, as though they always had something far more interesting to pay attention to than the living humans in front them. Now he understood perfectly well that often times they probably _did._

Hermione's shoulders sloped in relief as she dropped her wand to her side. "Helena! You frightened me!" She wondered briefly if her heart should simply forever stay hammering against her rib cage, since it seemed to do that so often as of late.

She considered—equally briefly—whether that might edge her into a heart attack all the faster, or if not needing to wind up and unwind again and again would simply save her a bit of time and a few early grey hairs.

Her sister winced. "My apologies."

Draco lowered his arm, as well. With his free hand, he pointed toward the specter as he looked at Hermione. "This is really her?_ The_ Grey Lady?"

"I am standing here, Sir. You can address me directly."

His brows pinching together and upward at the ghost's chastising tone, he turned his head to meet her gaze. "Um . . . ." Draco was truly at a loss for what to say to her directly. He'd been told Granger's reunion had freed the Grey Lady of her tie to the castle, but he hadn't expected to actually see her in broad daylight. "Sorry."

"Ohhh." Helena tipped her head to one side as she looked him over. "I believe I understand. You are not the 'you' I met that day. You are another you—the real you, now."

Draco made a strange little twitchy movement with his head while he blinked hard a few times, like he was trying to keep her in focus. At first, he thought he should perhaps avoid speaking to Ravenclaws, altogether—if the thankfully very few conversations he'd had with Luna Lovegood had taught him anything—but then he recalled what she meant with her garbled statement.

"Right, okay. I got it, you mean I wasn't me when you met me, because that was when Rowle was me . . . I mean when he was polyjuiced to look like me. Lord, it's contagious. Anyway." He forced a polite grin; he'd always heard the Grey Lady's temper was fierce, and in light of the fierce temper of the living, breathing witch beside him, he thought perhaps not sparking the ire of her ghostly sibling would be wise. "Lady Ravenclaw, pleasure to meet you."

Pursing her lips in thought, she tipped her head again. She'd just heard a quite similar voice address her in the same manner. Of course they were both Malfoys and the older of the two had mentioned his son being involved in all this, but once upon a time, they'd been a rather large family, so she did not fault herself for not automatically making the connection. Though now that she was aware, she thought she did notice a resemblance in the features, despite that the one before her was not nearly as tall as his father and had enough of his mother in his face that he was not a spitting image. They had the same grey eyes, and though their voices were not entirely alike, they spoke with the precise same cadence.

"I met your parents earlier today."

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance, even the Viking cat rumbled out a sound of surprise at that. "What?" they asked in the same breath.

"Lucius and Narcissa, yes? They were having tea with Minerva. They were discussing how to best support you. I would have stayed . . . ." Her grey cheeks darkened a very little bit. "In fact, I was very nearly distracted into doing just that, until I heard my little sister might be putting herself in danger to find the Muggles who raised her."

Draco turned his head ever so slightly, murmuring in Hermione's ear, "Is she blushing?"

Hermione watched her sister's face for a moment before nodding. "I believe she is." When Helena—clearly able to hear the conversation and embarrassed to have her emotions read so easily—scowled, the younger daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw tried to guess at what had her distracted during a meeting between Minerva McGonagall and the elder Malfoys that could cause her to blush.

"Oh," she said abruptly, brown eyes widening. Not that Helena was entirely wrong on thinking the wizard in question had a certain blush-worthiness about him, but she hardly thought either of the males present would appreciate a verbal acknowledgment of Lucius Malfoy's aesthetic qualities. "I think I understand what the distraction was."

Immediately the ghost's face pulled into an expression much like her sister's several moments earlier, daring someone to laugh or poke fun.

Completely lost, Draco asked, "Well, what?"

"You'd rather not know." Leaving it at that, Hermione turned, continuing to the shop.

Helena glanced about as she floated along behind them, content that particular discussion was closed. "Is your barbarian boy still in hiding?"

Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly yet remained silent, while Draco spoke around a hushed laugh, "Oh, you'll see in a minute."

* * *

Having checked all the windows—not that she expected a random passerby to suddenly pop up outside the building for the sole purpose of catching a glimpse of At-Large Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle, she simply couldn't help being cautious—the first thing Hermione did, once they were all inside with the door closed behind them, was to dispel the transfigurations on Thorfinn and Salazar. The serpent stretched himself only to relax and settle back down against his mother's collar bones.

Thorfinn also gave a stretch, long and almost angry, somehow. The movement made him seem taller, made him appear to take up even more space in the rundown shop's meagerly-sized ground floor.

Slumping a little as he dropped his arms back to his sides, he sighed. "I can't wait for this day to be over."

"Sorry," Hermione said, wincing as she retrieved his wand from where she'd kept it tucked inside her boot." I'm really trying not to have you in that form any more than necessary."

Her 'barbarian boy' smirked, nodding as she handed over his weapon. "Well, when this is all over, let me turn you into an otter for a few hours and we'll be even."

Her brows pinching upward, Helena leaned toward Draco. "An otter?"

Draco glanced at the ghost's face before he gave into a grin. He wanted to indulge this conversation, but he wasn't sure it was a topic that could be broached without bringing his own unfortunate animal form into it. "I's a long story," he finally said, the bridge of his nose crinkling as he shook his head.

Thorfinn looked at Helena, suddenly strangely aware that between seeing her first through Draco's eyes and then through the blasted cat's, this was his first time actually_ seeing_ her since she'd been alive and well. They hadn't known back then—as children, he and Sabina had never been told—that the reason for Helena's continued absence, the reason she'd not been there to attend her own mother's funeral, was that she'd lost her life.

Whether that was because their parents deemed them too young to deal with her loss on top of Rowena's imminent demise, or because there was no way to explain the loss without explaining the complex, and frankly stupid and selfish, reason behind it. How did one explain to a child that a man killed the woman he claimed to love because she did not love him in return? There was no way . . . especially not when trying to teach them that loving someone meant wanting them to be _happy_.

"Helena," the Viking prince said with a nod and the same smug grin he'd always shown her when he was a child—not good enough for her sister, indeed!, he'd think. "It's good to see you with my own eyes, again."

Startled by the booming voice she'd heard before coming out of the smaller wizard's mouth, the specter turned her full attention on the hulking blond man. It was more than obvious who this was, but looking him over . . . it was difficult to equate the specimen standing beside her sister with the bratty noble child from the north who'd sooner swing a sword or hurl a spell at something than try to figure it out. Rather not a good look on someone who was intended to marry a Ravenclaw.

She floated closer, trying to get a better look at him. The hair was the same color as the fur of the massive cat that had been trotting around behind them out in the street, eyes the same bright and clear shade of blue. And Merlin, was he tall . . . and _broad_.

"Barbarian boy," Helena said with a curt nod. "You have certainly grown up well."

"Can we get on with this, please?" Hermione asked in a light tone, trying not to laugh as her sister was blushing all over again from her examination of the-very-much-_grown_ Thorfinn's appearance.

"Right." Draco nodded and turned toward the basement door. The original track of foot prints through the layer of dust that had led there—which, for a short time, had been accompanied by his own prints—had been blurred out of his existence by the act of him half-dragging Aberforth Dumbledore along the very same path. "This way."

Thorfinn started after the other wizard, leaving the sisters to trail behind. He had an inkling Helena wanted a private moment with _Sabina_, anyway.

Waiting until the males were a little ahead of them—Draco starting down the staircase and Thorfinn just crossing the threshold—Helena tipped her chin, whispering in her sister's ear as they moved to follow. "He certainly matured nicely."

Hermione couldn't help a wistful smile as she nodded. "Yes."

Uttering a choked gasp, Helena pressed. "Oh, Lord. I know you said you are not sure about maintaining your betrothal, but . . . have you two already—?"

"Already what, Helena?"

Waiting for her sister to turn her head and meet her gaze, the elder Ravenclaw daughter arched a brow, her lips curving in a half-grin. "Consummated your relationship?"

Oh, Hermione could absolutely feel the color flaring in her own cheeks now, her smile broadening of its own volition. "Several times, actually."

Helena unexpectedly let out a pleading sound. "You _have_ to tell me all about it!"

Her heart was so warmed by the simple moment of sisterly bonding that Hermione felt her eyes water for a second, there. Blinking a few times, she sniffled and nodded. "Definitely, just . . . when we're done here."

* * *

After an hour of searching the dank basement—bloody Dolohov had not left so much as a candle down here, leaving them to check around the room by the illumination of their wands now that it was later in the day and there was far less light coming in from the high and narrow windows—Hermione called out to the others. She was crouched in corner, a small trunk, nearly lost to the shadows of the room due to the dark wood from which it was made open before her.

"I know what Dolohov was doing."

The other three gathered around, looking inside the trunk. There was a small cauldron stored away, the remnants of a sickly, split pea soup coloured concoction dried around its edge, and a handful of wiry grey hairs discarded carelessly beside it—as though a side effect of quick clean up.

"Wait . . . so the Aberforth Dumbledore we just met—"

"No. _He_ is the real deal," she said as she closed the trunk. "From the moment Draco found him until we left him with Mr. Henry at the bar of the pub, that was more than an hour. Too much time to pass without a Polyjuice potion wearing off. The only thing he drank was a clear bottle of Fire Whiskey, which we all saw. There wasn't time for him to sneak a sip from a flask or a vial unseen."

Draco shrugged, loathing how complicated this was becoming. "She's right."

"So . . . he, what? _Let_ Aberforth see him to lure him away from The Hogshead?"

She nodded in agreement with Thorfinn's question. "I think so. If Aberforth hid my parents away somewhere, Dolohov could've forced the information from him and then memory-charmed him, taken on his appearance and gone to find them. Conversely, he might simply have an idea where they are, and Dolohov figured as Dumbledore's brother, he'd be able to convince them he's someone they can trust, like they trusted Albus."

"Not just someone they would trust, Sabina." Helena frowned, her eyes strangely watery. "If I am understanding the situation correctly, someone who could be seen _in public_ traveling with a pair of Muggles without raising any alarms. Without fear of being spotted and reported to your Ministry."

"And the Grangers would have no reason to be fearful of him, or question his motives." Hermione felt her throat close as the possibilities suddenly became unending, dropping onto her shoulders as though they had physical weight. "They could be _anywhere_."


	25. Chapter 25

Apologies for the unintended week off. I had the dreaded Adulting to handle, once again (as those in the States know, it's the beginning of Tax Season, and I had my appointment for filing Thursday, and a house insurance hoopla the day before, and Friday, well, I have work I need to get finished on revising my first novel so I can re-release it and since I've been putting that off, I have now decided I can't work on any fanfic unless the novel chapter I need to rewrite that day is finished), my 8 year old was home sick with what was either a stomach virus or mild food poisoning, and I came down with a head cold. :/

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Narcissa swallowed bitterly as she trailed Lucius and Minerva through the Chamber of Secrets . . . . Honestly, it was wretched enough that they had to go through the unseemly entrance to this place, but now they traversed the moss-slicked stone tiles. She imagined the place hadn't looked much better a thousand years ago. The ghastly green light washing the walls with its rippling bursts of white illumination could almost be pretty if not for the constant, nauseating watery motion. She knew precisely why this place had gone undiscovered for so long, or at least she thought she did, as she looked up at the high ceiling with its natural, alternating formations of deep pocks and dripping stalactites.

Simply put? The legend said the Chamber of Secrets was a room Salazar Slytherin had built somewhere _in_ the castle. She might not be incredibly well versed in matters of masonry or architecture, but looking about this place—this place that apparently those who spun and carried on the legend had never actually seen with their own eyes—it seemed obvious the Chamber had been here eons before the castle had been erected. As a cavern, at least. The careful, grand stonework built into it _afterward _was clearly the work of Slytherin, but Hogwarts had long been known to have been built over a network of tunnels . . . . Why did everyone, then, seem to take it for granted that the Chamber was part of that network, and not some separate, nefariously-purposed, structure built by an elitist mad man?

Oh, it was enough to make her head hurt.

"What, exactly, are we doing down here?" Lucius asked after what seemed an insufferable amount of time listening to nothing but lapping water, distant drippings, and their own footfalls echoing off the wet stone.

Minerva did not bother to so much as glance back over her shoulder at the couple. "You asked what it was that really 'sold me' on the truth behind the story Helena told me?" In all honesty, she'd had no reason to doubt Helena Ravenclaw's word, but the tale the Grey Lady had shared with her seemed so . . . fantastic, and not in the positive sense of the term, that Minerva could not, in good conscience, take any of it at face value. Especially not when she considered that the entire story revolved around Hermione Granger, of all witches, being the living, breathing daughter of a wizard from a thousand years ago who—according to everything she had known about him—would despise her very existence.

It also didn't quite help matters that Helena had a rather infamous temper, and the timing of her revelation was not lost on the new Headmistress. For all she was aware, Miss Granger had somehow managed to cross the specter and the wild tale was a ludicrous attempt to get back at her. Though that theory seemed ludicrous, in itself, Minerva knew she needed just a single shred of proof that supported_ any_ part of Helena's story before she could accept it.

That had led her down here.

"Helena told me of a ritual room her step-father, Salazar, had favored using for crafting spells. She said she found it strange that no one ever mentioned _that _room, because who wouldn't want to find a secret magic nook used by one of the Founders? For centuries, people have _only _spoken of the Chamber, which she recognized as the cavern where Sabina had kept her pet serpent, of course." Minerva waved her illuminated wand in a dismissive gesture as she began leading them through one of the damp, grey-green tunnels that branched off the main body of the Chamber. "I realized, as I listened to her, that if the Chamber was something known about, a rumor that held true and which had withstood a thousand years, then why was the ritual room not just as much part of Salazar's legend?"

"Everyone loves a mystery," Narcissa said in a thoughtful tone. "And what could possibly be more mysterious than a room specifically made for ancient rituals attached to a so-called secret chamber?"

"Precisely. On the face of it, the omission makes little sense."

Lucius' expression of curiosity soured a little as he eyed the ceiling of the steadily narrowing natural stone corridor . . . . The witches seemed to not take into account that he was quite a bit taller than they were, and if this nonsense kept up, he'd soon have to stoop. Utterly undignified. "I'd always assumed Salazar sealed off the room after he put the children into their bronze sleep. I know for a fact that the altar he used for his rituals was removed for safe keeping, as he felt the stone from which it was made contained special properties."

Minerva turned sharply to face the wizard then, and Narcissa cursed softly under her breath. Perhaps Helena Ravenclaw didn't quite know as much of the story as she believed she did—even with the combination of her own witness and whatever blanks Miss Granger might've filled in. "What do you mean you 'know for a fact?'" The elder witch arched a brow in a severe expression. "How?"

"Because it was entrusted to the Malfoy line," he said, nonplussed by her sudden—if not wholly unexpected—spike in temper. "Had you come to the Manor for tea rather than insisting we meet here, we could be showing you that very artifact right now. Miss Granger and Mr. Rowle are both very aware of its existence already."

"Well, then we shall have to take tea at your home soon, as I am most curious to see it for myself." Apparently satisfied that nothing was being intentionally withheld from her, Minerva spun on her heel and started along the passageway once more. "And I made the same assumption; expected, given the environment, I suppose, as well as the time period. Wish to do away with a room? Simply brick up the entrance. As I was saying, I began searching for what could be sealed rooms down here. Now, it's perfectly natural for any cavern to have tunnels which finish at a dead end. So that was not enough."

She fell silent and the three of them continued onward, each of them pensive. The atmosphere of the Chamber didn't seem to lend to conversation very much, anyway. More so in the tunnels, they were danker, damper, darker . . . and they weren't simply quiet. No. They felt _muffled_, as though sound was not meant to trespass here.

After several unnerving minutes of nothing save for hush and footfalls, Minerva drew to what seemed like an abrupt halt. Abrupt, until Lucius stepped up near enough that he could see the end of the cavern by the light of the witch's wand.

"But this was enough to make me believe," she said, her murmured voice cryptic in the dense air of the passage. Circling her arm, she followed a perfect archway of carved stones, only half-hidden by the magic that had been used to fill in the long-forgotten entrance.

Just as Lucius was about to question if this was really the place she thought it was, the old woman raised her arm high over her head. In the center-most stone, there were two intricately etched S's linked by a serpent that seemed, by its style—by the difference of depth in the darkly grey-green surface—to have been added slightly after the letters.

"When I first happened upon this, I was strangely relieved, though quite confused," she said with an airy, mirthless laugh. "It told me Helena's story was truthful. But then the longer I looked at that inscription, the more certain I became of something that, well, began to break my heart."

Narcissa and Lucius both turned their attention away from the etching to watch Minerva's expression in the wand light. "What do you mean?" the younger witch asked.

Minerva blinked suspiciously damp eyes and shrugged. "At first, I believed the S's simply signified Salazar Slytherin. However, the snake is an afterthought, and the second S is small, seemingly for no reason . . . ."

Narcissa's pale blue eyes widened as she returned her gaze to the letters. "Oh . . . . Oh, it doesn't stand for Salazar. It's for Sabina."

Nodding, Minerva went on. "He created this chamber,_ all_ of it, including the ritual room, for her." Swallowing hard, she gesture between the letters with her wand. "A gift from a father to his daughter."

Lucius felt nearly as though the wind had been knocked from his lungs. He'd known ever since he'd learned the truth how very wronged the Slytherin line had been, but grasping that Salazar had felt forced to use the magic space he'd created_ for_ his child to remove her from his life for her own safety?

Staring up at the inscription, he near-automatically began the work of clearing out the magically filled room. Part of him wanted nothing more just now than to go find his son and hug him.

And neither of them even liked hugs.

* * *

"Why the bloody hell would anyone want to look like me?" Aberforth asked in a mystified tone. "_I_ don't even want to look like me."

The elder wizard was nursing a brand new bottle by the time they got back—the first empty and tipped over on the floor by his feet—though now his wounds had mostly been mended by Mr. Henry's healing magic. He still looked like he could do with a nap . . . for a year.

Hermione's brows shot up and her mouth puckered. She glanced over at Draco and her increasingly disgruntled feline betrothed seated at the bar. At least for the moment Thorfinn's unhappiness appeared stymied by another saucer of Fire Whiskey, and Draco was sipping from a pint of pumpkin ale. Oh, she hated that they had left her here to quietly try to get information out of Aberforth Dumbledore, but seeing as she was the only one among them on relatively good terms with the old man—even having dragged him from a heap in an abandoned building where he'd more than likely been left for dead hadn't really gained Draco Malfoy very much trust from the deceased Headmaster's brother—she couldn't say she did not understand their logic on the matter.

Well, Hermione supposed, the Malfoy name did bring with it a certain level of wary, malcontented suspicion now that no amount of last minute side-turning could alleviate.

Frowning at them—she'd much prefer to be sitting over there burying herself in the bottom of a deep, _deep_ mug than here in a corner with Aberforth's whiskey-breath—she shrugged. Her sister had flitted back to the castle, a form of reconnaissance as to what the older members of this strange group involved in their 'grand secret' was up to, so she did not even have Helena's reassuring, if not currently visible, presence at her side. "Well, maybe . . . maybe it isn't about you. Not in a specific sense, anyway."

Aberforth's great, grey-caterpillar eyebrows pinched together. After a clear moment of thought, they separated and rose high on his wrinkled forehead. "Oh, you think this might have something to do with my brother?"

The witch offered an uncomfortable, mirthless grin and shrugged once more. "Unfortunately, I think that might be the case. You know better than anyone that he was a man who kept many secrets. We . . . well, we believe Antonin Dolohov is trying to find out something only your brother knew, or possibly something he may have hidden? And that he thinks by appearing as you, he might gain access to the location or other information about whatever it is. Sounds mad, I know, but—"

"But sometimes a mad answer is the _only _answer that makes sense."

Hermione straightened up a little where she sat. She never quite expected that Aberforth Dumbledore, with his clear distrust of his late brother, could sound so very much like Albus. The thoughtful tone, the cadence of the words . . . . She had to give herself a small shake, a little unsettled by the resemblance. Before just now, she'd always thought any likeness between them was limited to their blue eyes and their wiry grey-white hair.

In that moment, she was extremely aware of Draco and Thorfinn watching her—extremely aware that they had both registered her shift in posture. Flicking her gaze toward them for a split-second, she saw that Malfoy had turned fully on his stool, resting his elbows back atop the bar's edge as he openly observed her and Aberforth. Thorfinn had sat up, also watching, but, well, cat, so it wasn't _as_ obvious, however . . . the way he placed one paw on his now-empty saucer in a gesture of impatience nearly sent her into a fit of laughter that would've not be very appropriate, at all, for the tension of her current discussion. Her struggle to not laugh—and the quickness with which she returned her attention to the old drunkard of a wizard before her—doubled when Mr. Henry arched a brow at the cat's antics and sighed, reaching over the bar to retrieve the saucer and refill it.

"Damn Irish cats," the old barkeep said, not nearly as quietly as he probably thought he had.

"I think . . . he did have a place he kept things that he didn't want anyone to find."

Hermione swallowed hard, unable to stop herself from scooting a bit closer in her seat. "He did?"

Aberforth took a long swig from his bottle and sighed. "Fucked if I would know where, though."

Her shoulders slumped. "Oh."

"But—" And just like that, the witch's form stiffened again so that she was sitting bolt-upright as Aberforth went on. "I do remember something about . . . the constant sound of the sea? Yes, yes, I do remember him talking about a private place. Small, and the sound of the sea being 'a constant companion.'"

She jumped to her feet, so thrilled at progress—_actual_ progress—that she didn't even realize she'd moved until the old man gave a start, his blue eyes wide as they followed her buoyant motion.

"Sorry, I just . . . I think I actually know where he meant." Best not to say anything more direct in the open like this, she thought, reaching to clasp one of his soft, wrinkly hands between both of hers in a hearty shake. "Thank you so much, Mr. Dumbledore. And please, be more careful who you go snooping on in the future."

The wizard make a _pfft_ sound and lifted his bottle back to his lips. "Please, bit more of this and I'll be right as rain. Good luck to you, and watch yourself with that Dolohov. He's one nasty bugger."

"I'm aware. I'll be cautious." She looked up at Draco and her . . . cat and nodded toward the door of the pub.

* * *

Once outside, she pulled them into the nearest alleyway. She knew the property in question probably didn't belong to Albus Dumbledore on paper, but there was every chance it was he who'd given it to the current owners. Those current owners, she knew for certain, were in France for the summer. And this was the Albus Dumbledore, there was every chance he'd managed to hide secrets in plain sight within the walls and floors of the place that even the most keen-eyed among them hadn't stumbled upon. Perhaps even . . . .

Perhaps even a secret room where one might hide a person or two?

"I know where we need to go next. Good news, it's empty right now—or should be. Chances are I can un-cat my boyfriend soon as we get there."

Thorfinn immediately perked up at that, his golden-tufted ears twitching.

"That old drunk actually had information that was useful?" Draco asked, exchanging a good-humored look with the suddenly less-irritable Viking feline.

"Not exactly, but he had a clue I was able to decipher." She withdrew her wand and scooped up the massive cat. "It's a place that's protected by a Fidelius Charm. Unplottable, secret-kept, the whole deal. No one can find it . . . at least no one who hasn't already been there."

"And you just so happen to have been there before?" He reluctantly clamped his hand around her wrist, aware that he could only accompany them if she pulled him side-along.

Hermione nodded, beaming. She wasn't thrilled about the idea of facing Dolohov, but she was hopeful of finding the Grangers, and her _real_ familiar, unharmed. . . . _A private place. Small, and the sound of the sea 'being a constant companion.' _"We're going to a former Order safe house. A place called Shell Cottage."


	26. Chapter 26

I'm sorry for an exceedingly short chapter. I expected to get more writing done while I'm here housesitting for my parents tonight, as I ordered them a new pc and it's all quick and sleek, but honestly, their entire computer desk set up is so uncomfortable that I'm having trouble getting into a typing flow, so if anything, I'll post 27 (perhaps it should more properly be thought of as '26.5') by Tuesday afternoon. I just didn't want to leave you guys hanging for another few days. Love you all!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

"Father? What . . . ? Whatever are you doing with my necklace?"

Salazar looked up from the scroll work before him, his green eyes falsely bright as he hid a sniffle. He indeed held his Sabina's beloved locket in his free hand, and now as he was faced directly with the tiny stature of his visibly angry daughter, he knew full well why she was upset and why he could not scold her for taking such a tone with him.

He was aware of precisely what the girl was thinking in this moment. He hadn't_ asked_ her if he could borrow it. He was the adult, he should—and did—know better.

"I was looking for it all morning!" The little witch stomped into her father's study without asking if she had permission to enter, but then perhaps that was because she had never been expressly forbidden from entering. Stopping at his elbow, she propped her hands on her hips and scowled.

With a gracious, appeasing smile, he set down his quill and the locket. Scooping her up and setting her on his knee, he let out a tired sigh. "I do apologize, my sweet little serpent. I need your necklace for just a little while for some research I am conducting. But you are right, I should have asked."

She only scowled harder. Sabina did not understand what information Father could possibly hope to glean from her locket. But then . . . a little ball of ice settled squarely in the pit of her stomach. It was designed with Father's particular sense of style in mind as though it might be something he—a man—would wear, but it was Mother who'd had the piece commissioned for their child.

Maybe Father's need of it was not about research—she well knew that parents were not always truthful with their children, but most often, any such dishonestly was in an attempt to protect them—but simply about _that_. Mother's funeral was still a fresh memory, perhaps he only wanted to hold something that she'd helped craft.

Yes, Sabina thought, nodding as she swallowed hard and forced a smile that was no more genuine than her father's, that made sense. But she knew she should play along. Father was always trying to put on a brave face for her sake, and she would not stop him. Helena was still on her mysterious secret trip, Mother had been taken from them; even with Auntie Helga constantly nearby and doting endlessly upon them and Uncle Godric seeming to work tirelessly at . . . something that kept him busy but that was evidently very important to Father, _she_ was his only true family now. She understood it was important to him that she let him be strong for her.

"Well . . ." she began, the word slow and somewhat overly enunciated. "I might allow you to borrow it for a time."

Salazar chuckled. "Oh? Now, that is quite kind of—"

"_If_ you tell me what this research is that requires it?"

Her father's jaw slackened as he held her gaze. After a moment of simply staring into her smug, determined little face, he narrowed his eyes. "Oh, you must believe you are so very clever, bargaining with adults that way."

"As you often tell me, I _am_ so very clever."

The wizard didn't know if he should be proud or annoyed, though he could picture Rowena in the Hereafter beaming over the confidence in their daughter's voice. He imagined other fathers did not have discussions of quite this sort with their eight-year old children. "All right. I will tell you, but you must not breathe a word of this to anyone else."

Her little face scrunched. "Not even Thorfinn?"

His daughter's question made him think he and Dagfinn were making the correct decision about what to do. The children had grown closer—that her betrothed's name was the first to come to mind regarding not sharing a secret proved as much—no good could come from separating them now, so the only answer was to ensure they were kept together. She and Thorfinn would share their fate.

"Not even Thorfinn," he said with a solemn nod.

She fidgeted in place for a moment, appearing uncomfortable with the notion. However . . . after a few heartbeats worth of contemplation, her curiosity won out. "Very well. I promise I will tell no one." Her dark eyes—so like her mother's—narrowed sharply, her gaze steady on her father's. "But this secret had best be worth the effort."

"To be honest, I am hopeful it will be."

"You do not sound certain."

Salazar shrugged at her observation. Not that there was very much _to_ observe, he wasn't certain. But, just as he'd said to her, he was hopeful.

Lifting the locket's charm in his fingers, he let the weight of it spin the fine, heavy work of silver and cloudy yellow-amber glass in the air. He directed her attention to it with a turn of his own head and they both watched the locket move in silence for a time.

After what seemed possibly too long—while he knew to her it would appear a pause intended for dramatic effect or suspense building, as he often did when telling her tales of fast=paced, climactic wand duels, in actuality he was listening to the corridor beyond the study's entrance, waiting to be certain no one was near enough to even accidentally overhear—he said to her in a whisper, "I am experimenting, my child. Attempting to conquer that which stole your mother."

Sabina's brow furrowed and she turned her head to look at his face. "Death? You . . . you wish to conquer death?"

Salazar's features pinched in pain for a flickering second, so fast his daughter missed it, and he met her gaze, another forced smile curving his mouth. "Exactly."

Her next words tumbled out, awed and smaller than even a child's voice should sound, "Is that even possible?"

"With luck, it will be," he replied, looking toward the silver and glass locket, once more. "After a fashion, at least."


	27. Chapter 27

Thank you all for being so understanding about the last chapter's abrupt nature. I very much appreciate it. I hope the reveals in this chapter make up for it 😊

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"Well."

Helena's voice startled the three standing inside the newly excavated ritual chamber. Nerves still wired from the only recently ended war, they turned as one, wands trained on the source of that lone word. The specter, however, was too distracted with looking about the freshly revealed space to take issue with their threatening gestures. Even had she not been distracted, she'd likely have started, but then settled for merely arching a brow at them. After all, it was hardly as though magic posed very much of a danger to her.

"This place looks spooky," she went on as Narcissa, Minerva, and Lucius all lowered their weapons, "and I suppose from a ghost, that_ is_ saying something. But in all sincerity, the centuries have done this room no favors."

Minerva frowned. There were simply some moments when Helena's behavior highlighted how very young she'd been when she had died. "Haven't I asked you not to sneak up on me like that?"

Wide-eyed, Helena set her head level and met the elder witch's gaze. "Oh, yes, apologies. If I may be so bold as to remind you, however, ghosts do not make noise when we move unless we mean to do so." She shrugged, clasping her hands before her in a picture of perfect innocence. "Most often it is simply unintentional."

"We have the same problem with some of the ghosts in the Manor," Lucius revealed with one of his graceful, nearly-bored-seeming shrugs. "Turn around and there they are, with no idea how long they were there before you noticed them."

Helena drifted a little closer to the wizard before she appeared to realize what she was doing and stopped herself. Now that he was facing her, the sensation of mindless infatuation that had taken her over when they'd first met threatened once more. It was easier to speak a moment ago, when he had been turned away from her. Though, in truth, he was not that bad of a view from the back, either.

Clearing her throat and centering herself, the ghost said, "It is hardly as though it is my fault I am dead, now is it? Do you wish to know what I learned when I tracked down Sabina and your boy Draco, or not?"

Lucius arched a brow at her forceful tone. Minerva folded her lips on a grin, aware the young woman was trying to push past her little crush. Narcissa shook her head and stepped in front of Lucius, redirecting the Grey Lady's attention to herself. She found the ghost's fascination with her husband utterly amusing and adorable, but information about the children took precedence over humor.

"Please, Lady Ravenclaw, if you'd tell us?"

Helena opened her mouth, but paused, sparing a moment to take in the blonde witch's demeanor and visage. She was so . . . collected and poised. It was easy to believe the woman could not make an ungraceful movement if her very life depended on it. Elegance personified, yes. It was no wonder this dashing figure of man had taken her for his wife. They were well suited. Oddly, that comforted the infatuated ghost. It felt right. Though Helena imagined that were he married to some useless, unappealing sow—like that insufferable Umbridge woman who had tried to take over the castle a few years ago—it would cause her pain.

"You are so very lovely," Helena informed the Lady Malfoy with a gentle, approving smile before she went on to explain her first adventure outside the walls of Hogwarts castle in a thousand years.

"You're all going?" Minerva asked afterward as Helena hovered along behind the hurried footfalls of the couple.

Halting, Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a look before their collective attention landed on Helena.

The ghost's shoulders drooped as she turned pointed glances on all three living people in the room, in turn. "Oh, do not make such faces."

Minerva frowned. "It is only that we worry for you, Helena."

Appearing very human for a moment, Helena Ravenclaw rolled her eyes and made an unattractive scoffing sound in the back of her throat. There went the resemblance between the Grey Lady and Miss Granger, again. "I am the safest person among the four of us. And might I remind this quite small assembly that should anything unfortunate transpire, I am the only one among those leaving the castle who can literally return here as fast as she can think to inform you of such?"

The elder witch's frown deepened. Helena wasn't wrong, but still . . . . Minerva was worried while she'd been out looking for her sister, and she was worried now. The closer she'd become with Helena over the past few weeks, the more she came to see her no differently than any of the children in her care as a teacher, or as new Headmistress. And it was a worry which only grew with the knowledge that for all their sakes, she could not openly follow the Malfoys about in public herself without the risk of drawing undue attention.

"All right. But be careful." She felt odd tacking on this last part, given she was also speaking to the Malfoys, but they were allies now, and they all needed to act like it, "All of you."

Narcissa and Lucius answered her concern with gracious nods before turning away. Helena vanished from sight as she followed along in the Malfoys' wake.

* * *

They popped into existence on the breezy white sands of a stretch of beach. Uncertain what to expect, exactly, Hermione and Draco both looked around, wands drawn.

Not a person or structure—beyond the not-far cottage—met their eyes. Draco exhaled a sigh of relief and lowered his wand. He'd suspected, though it had seemed highly unlikely, that this might be a trap. The only way for that to be possible would've been to know that Hermione had been able to follow some very disparate bread crumbs that had only been left unintentionally. Of course, she had, but he'd been there to witness how entirely coincidental the entire scenario had been.

Hermione did not lower her wand, instead setting the cat in the sand and dispelling his Transfiguration. She also dispelled the charm on Salazar as Thorfinn stretched and grumbled about a suspicion that he might well develop a deep hatred for cats after all this. The little serpent immediately made his dislike of their sunshiny environment known.

"_Bright,"_ the poor little thing whined in a hiss close to her ear.

Making a cooing sound, Hermione gently stroked his scales with the tip of her finger. "_It's all right_," she hissed back. "J_ust tuck your head beneath my collar. You'll be okay._"

She looked up to find Draco staring at her. "What?" she demanded in an exhausted tone. "You know I'm a Parselmouth. Well, you know that now I am, anyway."

The Malfoy heir nodded and cleared his throat. "Yeah, I _do _know, but it's still fuckin' weird to watch Hermione Granger speaking Parseltongue."

Exhaling a deep sigh, she turned her attention to Thorfinn. "Are you all right?"

The Viking wizard nodded and held out a hand. "My wand, please?"

"Oh, right. Sorry." Hermione opened her bag and rooted around for a bit. After a few seconds of searching, she extracted his weapon and placed it into his waiting fingers.

"Whatever we find here, let's just Apparate back to the Manor or your house, yeah? I've had it up to my eyeballs with not being 'me' for the day, I think."

"I'm just happy you weren't me this time," Draco said with a grimace.

"Yes, because I'm sure it was such a strain for you."

"Okay, you two, stop." Honestly, it was like Ron and Harry all over again. Actually, if she were being wholly truthful about it, it was like Ron and Harry when one of them was in a bitchy mood. It was always a chain reaction—one of them woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and the other wouldn't be able to stop themselves from responding in kind and suddenly they'd be arguing like children. "Dolohov might hear us."

Turning toward the cottage as one, they held their wands steady as they started forward.

"Remember to look before you strike. If he does have my parents in there, we don't want to hit them by accident," the witch cautioned in a whisper.

"Speaking of parents," Draco said, his voice as low as hers, while they crept toward Shell Cottage. "Seeing as we might be about to go up against a surprised Antonin Dolohov, perhaps we should've left word for mine by, I dunno, sending an owl to McGonagall, or something? Just to let them know where we're going."

"He's right, actually," Thorfinn piped up.

Hermione rolled her eyes, growling out the words in an angry breath of sound, "All right, so I made a mistake. I was thinking on the move. Maybe if everyone would stop leaving the planning to me all bloody time, hmm?"

The door to the cottage swung open and all three started. Their wand arms steady, they held their weapons trained on the entrance.

"I'm telling you, I heard something," a woman's voice drifted from the open doorway.

"Then I should be the one to check, or we tell him you heard something. It might not b—"

"Mum? Dad?" Hermione _knew_ those voices. Knew them so well a thousand memories chased through her mind and her heart lightened, her wand arm immediately falling slack at her side.

The response was immediate. Dahlia and William Granger emerged. They looked normal, looked healthy, if surprised. But they did not look confused—they were, indeed, not under the effects of a memory charm, modified or otherwise.

"Hermione?" Dahlia ignored the men accompanying the witch for the moment as she hurried across the sand. "How did you find us?"

"It's a long story," Draco offered in a confidential-sounding whisper.

"Mum, you're okay?" Yes, she saw it with her own eyes, felt it in the sure strength of the woman's arms as Dahlia Granger hugged her tight, but still, after everything else these past few weeks, the simplicity of it made this seem impossible.

"Of course I'm okay," Dahlia said as William joined them. Pulling back enough to look in her adoptive daughter's face, she asked, "But why are you crying?"

Hermione hadn't even realized it, but she was. Her vision was blurred for the tears gathering in her eyes and her throat had closed up on her. The tip of her nose stung as though she'd just been punched square in the face.

Giving herself a shake, she forced herself to speak. "I thought something had happened to you!"

"We're fine, dear," William assured, touching her cheek with a gentle palm. "But it's happened? You remember?"

She nodded, sniffling. "I remember."

The Grangers cast a split-second glance on Draco—they knew him already from that lovely second year incident in Diagon Alley when Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley had gotten into that spectacular row in the bookshop—and then turned their attention to Thorfinn.

"Then, you must be him, hmm?" Dahlia gave a watery smile. "The Bronze Boy?"

Thorfinn had no idea how to feel about any of this. "I am."

William drew himself up to his full height. Hermione'd seen him do this before, and at an even 6ft tall, it was often a somewhat intimidating gesture . . . until he was standing before Thorfinn Rowle, who still had four inches over him at his tallest.

"Now, you see here, young man," William started, his expression severe—obviously the height discrepancy didn't faze him, "I may be only a Muggle, but so help me, if you hurt this girl, I _will_ make you sorry."

The Viking prince's brows drew upward as he nodded. Just like that, he was overwhelmed with respect for the man. "So noted, sir."

"Wait!" Hermione and Draco said in the same breath, drawing the attention of the other three to them. For their part, Hermione and Draco shared a quick look, frowning at one another and then returning their gazes to the rest of their little group.

Draco made a go ahead gesture that Hermione caught from the corner of her eye. "I don't understand. Where's Antonin Dolohov?"

"He's here."

The wizards and witch immediately aimed their wands at the voice. There he stood in the doorway, exactly as each of them remembered him. "You needn't be so on-guard. I brought these Muggles here for their protection." He started toward them, making no move to draw his own weapon, and seeming utterly unfazed by the weapons trained so unfalteringly on him.

"You mean to protect them?" Hermione demanded through clenched teeth. "Why would you ever want to?"

As he reached them, she noticed the chain—the oddly familiar chain of thick, dark silver around his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his black robes. "Because I understood the breaking of the charm I placed on your memories was imminent and I knew you would wish them safe."

"Wha . . . ? The charm _you_ . . . ." Hermione could not even string together a coherent sentence.

Thorfinn darted his gaze about, as thought an answer would appear in the air. "Uh . . . ."

"Hang on," Draco said, his wand arm dropping to his side as he pinched between his brows with his free hand.

Hermione, sick to her bloody eyeballs of all the confusion and fear and everything she'd had to suffer recently, stomped right up to Dolohov. He—quite annoyingly serene at the moment—held up his hands in a gesture of surrender as she pulled the chain from beneath his robes, revealing her long-lost locket.

"No." She swallowed hard, backpedaling. "How . . . ?"

"This was far too precious. I could not let it be found, so I secreted it away, let the world believe a duplicate was the real thing."

Her features pinched. So Regulus replaced a copy with a copy? Hermione could only stare up at him. Oh, this had the potential to get very complicated.

"Like my wand, which is now yours."

"It can't be," she said, her voice falling from her lips in a lifeless whisper.

"I told you, I needed your necklace in my research. I trust you remember?"

Her head was swimming. This was not something she'd been prepared for, not remotely. "Researching a means to defeat death."

Antonin Dolohov smiled and it was only now that Hermione noticed the faint wash of green in his dark irises. "And I did. Much like I encased you in Bronze to traverse the ravages of time, so, too, did I encase some of my soul in your necklace; the man before you is but a vessel. I can't tell you how long I've waited to see you again, my little serpent."

Hermione's entire frame drooped where she stood, tears welling in her eyes anew. "Father?"

He nodded, a smirk just like the one she remembered plucked one corner of his mouth upward. "I missed you, Sabina."

Before she could even think to stop herself, she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. He returned her embrace, holding her to him for a few heartbeats as she tried to muffle her crying.

"And now I've seen everything," Thorfinn said with a nod. He gave a start when he found Antonin/Salazar's gaze on him. He made an awkward, throat-clearing sound. "Sir."

Salazar smiled. "I am happy you two found each other."

"Wait, though, wait," Draco said, his hands up in the air. "How? How? _How!"_

Hermione realized that Draco didn't actually know about the Horcruxes. A chill when down her spine as that word went through her. She'd been so happy to have her father with her again, she'd not really thought about what it meant.

Pulling back from the possessed wizard holding her, she met his darkened green gaze. "That's right, it's a Horcrux. Bloody Voldemort actually did manage to follow you without even knowing he was doing it!"

"Oh, yes, heard about that poor sod. As though my descendants don't have troubles enough without fools like him mucking up our name further."

"No, no!" Hermione stepped back from him, entirely. "That's not . . . . To create one, that means you had to have split your soul." She often surmised that the reason Voldemort was so deeply inhuman was that after splitting his soul so many times over to create his own Horcruxes, he had not so much as a sliver left over for himself. "You had to kill someone."

Her father's shoulders slumped. Lowering his gaze from hers, he nodded, currently oblivious to their audience. "Yes."

"You had to know I wouldn't want that, not for me, even if it meant seeing you again." Her voice was cracking. She barely felt it as Thorfinn stepped up beside her and looped an arm around her shoulders.

Salazar lifted his head, a pained smile on his face. "He deserved it. I waited until he was on his death bed. I made it look like he had passed naturally, but he deserved it. Had deserved it for decades, and if our reunion came about as a result of his demise, then it would be some form of justice served."

Her heart fell into her stomach. She was pretty sure she knew, but she had to ask. If she was right, then she couldn't actually say she disagreed with him, and she was beginning to wonder if being the daughter of Salazar Slytherin was changing her, after all.

"Father? Who did you kill to create that Horcrux?"

He reached out, taking her hand between both of his. She'd always had a temper, which sometimes led to rash decisions, but the accuracy of her moral compass depended entirely upon the circumstances; how badly that man had hurt their family might not be reason enough to kill him, or it might be reason that his death should've been long, drawn out, and insanity-inducingly painful.

"I killed the man who murdered your mother." His voice was firm yet solemn. "I killed Godric Gryffindor."


	28. Chapter 28

I'm so happy everyone loved the plot twist in the previous chapter. One tiny thing, though? I know some readers get really excited and when you review, you just kind of blurt things out in a rush of typing, but maybe next time you could please restrain yourselves revealing the_** big**_ surprise I've been building up to for the last ten chapters? There's a good number of people who read reviews before taking a chance on a story, and to have a major plot twist stated in the open like that is kind of defeating to all of that build up.

The break _DoS_ just went on was completely unintended, I'm _**so**_ sorry about that. I think it's safe to say weekly updates are simply no longer manageable with this fic (I mean, I tried and kept it up for 20+ weeks which was more than I thought I could've done). It's just this story has really evolved and grown beyond what I thought it was going to be and I was sincerely not prepared for this to move from modern-novel-length into 'epic' status [there's this weird thing where a lot of fanfic readers believe fics that are several hundred thousand words long are 'novel length', but in reality, a modern novel averages between 50k-90k words long, so . . . yeah]).

Moving forward I will_** try**_ to return to weekly updates, but this is your heads up that that simply might not always be doable.

ALSO, this chapter is short, I do apologize profusely for that, but I'm just so happy to get this story moving again.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Hermione felt strangely numb as her mother . . . as Mrs. Granger . . . as . . . Dahlia? Mum! As _Mum _set a cup of tea between her palms. After her father's—Salazar's . . . Dolohov's, oh this was going to be a heck of a thing to get the hang of—confession, everything became strangely fuzzy; diluted and water-colored.

She vaguely recalled everyone exchanging worried glances, which she imagined was on account of whatever face she was making . . . or a total lack of expression on her face, perhaps. She was certain either would be considered equally troubling under the circumstances.

Just as vaguely, she remembered being ushered into the cottage, where Thorfinn steered her toward a chair. Honestly, though, she could not seem to remember if she had sat down of her own volition, or if Thorfinn'd had to tip her backward by the shoulders until she fell into the seat.

And now, somehow, she was _here_. Here with her adoptive parents, the ghost of her long-dead father inside the body of a man who'd tried to kill her, and—because that wasn't odd enough on its own—the wizard to whom she had been betrothed for a literal thousand years, along with her childhood bully, who were _all_ watching her with unveiled concern.

Father had taken little Salazar from around the young witch's neck and cupped the minuscule, still not-very-threatening serpent in a gentle hand as he stroked the smooth scales with the tip of one finger.

"I know you are confused," he started, "anyone would be. You may ask me whatever you wish to know."

The cadence of his words and change in his pronunciation stood out to her as being different from modern speech only _after_ a few heartbeats had passed. Out on the shore, he had been speaking perfectly current English, but now she suspected that had been more for the benefit of The Grangers and Draco, as she and Thorfinn had both regained their Northumbrian fluency when they memories had been restored, she simply had not realized that fact until she'd heard it actively spoken.

Of course, this brought to mind a question that hadn't occurred to her before, but one that would probably have to wait as it was not pertinent to this conversation. If they spoke this ancient form of English, then it meant the original documents from their time should be equally tricky for modern English speakers to comprehend. Unless, of course, someone had translated them in more recent generations. That meant someone out there might still know of them. A relative, a descendant, might still be in possession of those original Northumbrian documents that had been intended to pass along through time with her and Thorfinn. But who?

Yet, she was distinctly aware that now was not the time for that particular question—it would only sidetrack as she'd so spectacularly done on previous occasions—and so she filed it away for the first opportune moment.

"Why him?" was the first actual question to fall from her lips.

Salazar's brows pinched together. "Him?"

Now that she was over that initial happy shock of being reunited with her father so unexpectedly, she had room in her heart and in her head to be troubled by the host body he'd chosen.

Hermione pointed squarely at the center of Antonin Dolohov's chest. "Him. Why. Did. You. Choose. _Him_?"

Looking down at himself and then lifting his head to meet her gaze once more, he said, "I did not. Not truly." He seemed genuinely unaware of why his current . . . appearance might be upsetting to her.

"Then how did this happen?" She set aside the cup and pushed up to her feet. She didn't want a nice spot tea or a comfy chair. She was angry and confused and knew that she had every conceivable right to feel both in this moment.

Salazar's shoulders slumped as he watched his daughter, a frown creasing his face. "This man, Dolohov, put on the necklace. I had nothing to do with it, nor do I have knowledge of how it came into his possession. I have only been conscious in this time for a few weeks."

Hermione turned to face the Grangers, cognizant that Thorfinn had been translating, which was what had made her aware that she'd answered her father in the same _old_ dialect he'd spoken. She was going to ignore that for now, because things were entirely too insane as it was. "Mum, Dad? What exactly happened before you arrived here with him?"

The Grangers shared a look, William took a sip of his own cup of tea as Dahlia placed hers down and stepped closer to her adoptive daughter. There was relief in knowing the girl still thought of her as 'mum.' Yes, there had been that first moment on the shore of warm hugs and loving words and tears, but now that things were calmer and Hermione was thinking clearly—if deservedly angrily—she had not changed a thing of how she looked at Dahlia Granger. There was no hint of darkness lurking in her tone, no attempt to backpedal at her closeness.

Dahlia hadn't realized she was tense, or that she'd expected any of those reactions to occur, and she found herself releasing a sigh that had the odd effect of taking with it those unconscious anxieties. "How far back shall I go?"

"I should think you'd start with why the bloody hell you left Australia," Thorfinn said in a grousing tone. Draco remained silent but nodded, his brows lifting in expectation.

Both women looked over at the Viking, their shared expression mirroring the years they'd lived together as mother and daughter.

Thorfinn sidestepped their scrutiny only to nearly trip over something. "What the . . . ?" He crinkled the bridge of his nose as he watched the puffy orange beast brush past him to trot over to his mistress. "Is that a cat?"

"Crooks!" The witch was distracted momentarily as she bent to scoop her overly-large familiar into her arms and lift him. Despite how tight she hugged the creature with his smooshed, so-ugly-it's-cute face, he didn't seem uncomfortable or eager to get away as most felines would. "I missed you!"

Thorfinn pointed at the Kneazle-cat. "That?" His expression souring, he turned to look at Draco. "_That_ is what people were supposed to mistake me for?"

Draco shrugged and uttered an exasperated breath. "He's a big, puffy cat, you were a big puffy cat. Pretty sure she wasn't expecting anyone to look any closer than that, mate."

Blue eyes narrowing, Thorfinn returned his attention to the beast only to tip his head, a bit startled. Was that beast actually glaring at him?

He arched a brow, raking a hand through his hair as he straightened up to stand as tall as he could. "Like to think I had a more dignified appearance."

"_Blimey_. A cat's a cat," Draco said in a mystified whisper. Were he in the other wizard's situation, he'd hardly be upset that he was mistaken for some other ferret, now would he?

"Oh, sorry." Hermione pressed a kiss to the top of Crooks' head and set him on the chair behind her. The cat obediently curled up in her shadow, but did not peel his unhappy gaze from his mistress' betrothed.

"But Thorfinn isn't wrong," she continued, trying to ignore the sudden yet strangely welcome coat of orange fur she was now wearing. "Please, start from your decision to leave Australia. Preferably with the 'why'."

"Well, your dad and I have been under specific enchantments for a very long time. I dare say since you awoke from the bronze, in fact." Dahlia nodded, spreading her hands. She spoke cautiously, now, like someone trying to concentrate while navigating a faulty layer of ice. "These enchantments are a combination which only permits memory charms to take affect in the event that they're cast for our own protection. Once we were away from the War, the enchantments recognized us as being out of danger, and so broke the memory charms you placed on us. And we knew we had to return."

Hermione's heart plummeted into her stomach. "You returned _after_ your charms broke?" Her eyes welled up quite without her leave. She'd missed them and longed to see them again and thought being separated from them—thought tearing her own heart in two to send them away—had been worth if it had meant they were _safe_!

"You . . . how long were you back in Britain?"

Dahlia lowered her head, sniffling. Yes, she knew she shouldn't have expected the sunshine and kittens phase of their reunion to last. It could come back, though, once this was all sorted, she was sure.

She looked back at her husband, who was hanging his head, his shoulders drooped low. Clearly they'd both hoped this was a question that wouldn't have come up in light of the much larger issues looming on the horizon.

But Hermione did have the right to know.

A watery, joyless smile playing on her lips, Dahlia returned her gaze to her adoptive daughter's. "Since about a week after you first sent us away."


	29. Chapter 29

I'm terrible, and I'm sorry. This fic went from weekly updates to kinda whenever, and I sincerely never wanted that. There's plan in place as far as storyline, the ending's already formed, so I hope that's at least a comfort to you guys as I struggle to bring the next chapters to life.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

She could hear them calling her name as she stumbled though the door of the cottage and out onto the beach, but she couldn't make sense of the words. How could they do this to her? How could they endanger themselves after all she'd done to protect them?

Hermione was barely aware of her legs moving beneath her. Of Crookshanks knowing better than to struggle in her hold as she walked, her wand out at her side.

She knew, numbly she knew, they were following her. She could make out Thorfinn and Father having a hushed conversation somewhere close at her back in Northumbrian—which somehow felt clearer to her in that moment than English, more distinct, more recognizable, despite that her mind refused to make sense of that language, as well—and Mum and Dad were muttering what were probably apologies for their deception. She imagined Draco, the lone silent tag-along, was trailing after them at a safe distance, merely observing the chaos in shock at all the drama that had unfolded so very quickly.

"I . . . I have to go."

The words fell from her lips with very little recollection of any thought to speak them. She heard a swell of sound behind her, forcing her to turn and look at them all.

Just as back in the cottage, whatever was—or perhaps wasn't—in her expression caused them worry. Each of them fell quiet, she imagined in wait for her to clarify.

Thorfinn was beside her nearly faster than she thought he ought to be able to move. "Where?" was all he asked, his eyes holding hers unblinking.

Hermione Granger . . . Sabina Slytherin, the bizarre amalgam-creature she was of those two people now . . . . She'd never like the sensation of helplessness. In fact, she loathed it—it made her uncomfortable in ways that she could not even begin to put into words.

Yet that was precisely how she felt now as she stared up into those familiar blue eyes. Eyes she'd known for a thousand years . . . .

In an instant, how fast this had all happened slammed onto her shoulders. It didn't matter that she'd known him since they were children, did it? Nor that they'd been put into slumber to end up together now like this. Only a few weeks had passed, barely scraping toward a month's time—and here they were so entrenched in one another that she honestly couldn't imagine having gone through any of this upheaval without him by her side.

His willingness to help her through should be a comfort. It should make her feel warm, cared for . . . . Yet it made her heart feel cold and heavy in her chest.

And that dead, weighty sensation was nothing to do with him. She recognized that, intellectually, at least. But emotionally? She could not get past that this was all her. Her letting rise—and give over control to—an uncertainty that terrified her.

Her life was changing and not a single person or thing she'd clung to before all this had been here for her to lean on.

Except one.

With a lifeless little shrug, she whispered, "Somewhere I feel safe."

Thorfinn felt it like a gut punch when she Disapparrated without him. She'd taken her damned squish-faced beast of a cat, but not him!

Yet, turning his attention on his former fellow Death Eater who was currently the living host of his potential father-in-law's long-dead spirit—Merlin, this was going to be a mess to keep track of—her Muggle adoptive parents, and little Malfoy, he knew he understood her reason for fleeing.

"I think," he said, addressing the meager assembly who indeed seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "She needs time, and we have to respect that. We should go finish that tea, clean up the cottage so no one knows it's been used in its owners absence, and then . . . . Apparate to Malfoy Manor."

"Oh, sure, yes. Let's bring this circus to my house."

Thorfinn hung back his head, glaring up at the sky as he groaned. He would ignore for the moment that he could hear Mrs. Granger trying to hide her sniffling, and Mr. Granger being just as quiet as he tried to comfort her. Honestly, they'd raised the woman the past ten years of her life, they should've known how hard their deception would hit her. He was perfectly cognizant that they had their reasons—reasons which were none of his business until after they explained themselves to Hermione, _first_—and knew she would settle down and hear them out once she'd sorted through her feelings in her own way.

But for now, he was stuck with this snarky little shit over here. Of course he knew he was thinking more harshly toward Malfoy than was necessary, knew they'd actually begun a grudging friendship over the last couple of weeks, yet his need to vent how useless he was feeling right now made it hard to care.

Setting his head level, he concentrated his anger on Malfoy's face. Though the Muggles didn't notice anything, in his periphery Thorfinn spotted the way Salazar flinched in his direction. Clearly the man recognized the gleam in Thorfinn's eyes from when he'd been young. The Hunter's Glare, Salazar and his father had called it, as if the title had actually been a thing.

Inhaling deep, he let said glare settle into a mere look of displeasure. "I am suggesting we go there because with your family turning on Voldemort and his followers at the end of the War, the manor is the_ last_ place the Ministry will come looking for an at-large Death Eater," Thorfinn said, nodding toward the Horcrux-possessed man in question, "or the Grangers. It's the only place they can stay safe while we figure out whether or not they're in danger. And your dad's got the resources and records handed down through your family. Between her father and yours, they might be able to come up find something that will finally set everything to rights. Isn't that what we all want?"

Draco let his tensed shoulders droop a bit as reason settled over him. "You're right, I know. I just . . . ." He decided to be honest. "I just think it's fucked that we're all stuck like this, is all."

His words made Thorfinn think of Hermione. Yes, they were all 'stuck like this', but it centered on her and she knew it. She was feeling the weight of it, the fear of not knowing what might come next, of not knowing how her other loved ones would take learning who she really was, the pressure of trying to prove her father wasn't a monster.

It was no wonder she'd needed to flee just now.

"Anyway, c'mon, then." He sighed and gestured for them to head back into the cottage. "I think we could all do with that cup of tea, now."

As they started filing back inside, Salazar caught Thorfinn by his elbow. The younger man turned his attention on him, finding the odd haze of green over Antonin Dolohov's dark eyes unsettling. Little Salazar was curled upon his shoulder, so at least seeing the wee one so calmed in his presence was a comfort. "Sir?" he asked, arching a brow.

Salazar merely held his gaze for a moment, his look appraising, calculating, before he answered. "I always thought you were a good match for my Sabina. I am glad to see proof that I was right."

Thorfinn smirked, hoping that after this was all over and they weren't stressing and panicking every five minutes so she could think clearly, she would continue to see him that way, too.

* * *

"Well, that was pointless," Lucius groused as he and Narcissa—and the currently not-visible Helena, he imagined—exited the pub.

"And strange," his wife tacked on, nodding.

At first, Aberforth had not wanted to tell them a word, but when they reminded him that their son was with Miss Granger, so it very much _was_ their business what had transpired, he finally conceded. With a fresh bottle in his grasp, he unleashed the entire bizarre tale, which ultimately told them nothing of where the children were now.

"Perhaps we should go back to the manor. They'll likely return there at some point, or at least he will."

Narcissa's lovely porcelain face creased in a frown. "I don't like this. This . . . not knowing anything." She went on softly, as if speaking to the air, itself, "Lady Ravenclaw? Are you still with us?"

Equally quiet, Helena's voice whispered around them. "Yes. I shall return to the castle and inform Minerva of your departure. Please send word if you hear from my sister before we do?"

"Of course," the blonde witch assured her. "And you, as well."

Helena spared one last—albeit wholly unseen—glance at Lucius Malfoy's dignified countenance and then thought herself back to Hogwarts.

* * *

Hermione didn't know if it was happy coincidence, or some divine power finally showing mercy on her that Professor McGonagall was coming down the castle's main staircase just as she barreled through the doors.

One look at the young woman's face had Minerva coming over to her side immediately. She gave the large, unhappy ginger feline tucked against Hermione's left side a wide berth as she circled to wrap a protective arm around his owner's shoulders. "Oh, my dear! What's happened?"

Her lower lip trembling, Hermione met the headmistress' gaze. "There's . . . there's just so much. I can't . . . . My mind is racing, I've lost track of what I'm even thinking."

Nodding, Minerva used her arm on Hermione to guide the younger witch with her back up the staircase. "Well, it certainly sounds like you could do with a quiet sit and a nice spot of tea; you don't have to say a word until you're ready."

* * *

"Sabina!" Helena's voice filled the room the moment Hermione and Minerva appeared in the entryway of the headmistress' office.

Even before Hermione met her ghostly sister's gaze, she knew that Helena's expression had gone from surprised and concerned to irritated in a blink from the pitch of her voice, alone. "And precisely where have you been? We were worried sick! We have to let the Malfoys know you're . . . ." She backpedaled at the sight of the cat in her sister's arms. "You have a kneazle as your familiar? My, times really _have_ changed."

Oh, no, Hermione realized with dread as she let Crookshanks down. She'd left little Salazar with them. She trusted Thorfinn, and Father, and yes, even Draco, to care for her tiny basilisk perfectly well in her absence, but still. She was sure to get a hissing earful from her little darling when they reunited in a few hours.

In a corner of her mind, behind her joy at something so simple as her sister being annoyed with her, Hermione realized that it never occurred to her to think it odd that Helena did not default to Northumbrian the way Father did. It made sense, actually. While Father had only been 'alive' in this time for a few weeks, Helena Ravenclaw had existed in the castle all this time, she'd listened and observed and had the luxury of time to absorb all the changes to her world. Her easy use of modern English was a result of her time spent among the living residents of Hogwarts. It also explained why she had an accent that could easily place her as being from any number of regions in the UK—hers was a blending off those she heard on a near-daily basis.

"I'm—" Hermione started, but she was just as quickly hushed by a stern look from Minerva; the familiarity in that sharp-yet-motherly expression was a comfort.

"Let her have a moment, Helena,"

The specter glanced from one living witch to the other, and back. "Well, all right. You should know, however, the Malfoys have returned home."

Minerva guided Hermione to a chair and then turned her attention on Helena, mindfully sidestepping Crookshanks as he commandeered his witch's lap. "If your sister is here, alone, and they saw fit to leave, I'm going to guess your trip was pointless?"

Helena narrowed her eyes, waiting patiently as Minerva poured Hermione some tea from the silver service the elves had brought up earlier. With a flick of her wand, she warmed the cup's cooled contents and held it out upon a saucer for the young woman to take.

When Sister had her fingers closed around the cup's delicate handle and was taking her first sip, Helena answered, "Mostly, yes. We encountered a horribly inebriated elderly gentleman with the most dreadfully unkempt grey whiskers—"

"Aberforth," Minerva and Hermione offered in the same breath.

"Yes, him." Helena nodded, settling herself in the seat across from her sister's. "And his story did not make very much sense at all. You discovered the recent whereabouts of some man the Malfoys knew, who had pummeled said elderly gentleman, and then after he told you some rubbish about hearing water, you left. And we did not know what to do with such strange information, so _we_ left, as well. They felt their dear Draco might return home, so . . . ." She trailed off with a simple shrug.

Hermione set her cup against its saucer and placed them upon the nearest level surface. She felt a little calmer now, and she most certainly did feel safe. Even if her heart was still shredded to bits in her chest. Even if her mind was still more scrambled than she could recall in a long while.

She was safe. And so, with her sister and a woman so dear to her she may as well be her grandmother seated close, Hermione broke down and told them all that had happened.

By the time she was finished, Minerva was beside her, holding her hand in a tight, comforting grip despite her own quite visible disbelief over all that had happened in a single afternoon.

"He's alive?" Helena's voice, oddly thin and reedy, sounded the incredulous silence that followed her sister's last word. "Salazar is alive?"

"In a manner of speaking." Hermione gave a sideways nod.

"Do you . . . do you think I could see him?"

Brows shooting upward in surprise, Hermione exchanged a glance with Minerva. "I . . . I don't see why not, but he can't come here, not in the body of a wanted Death Eater, and I don't want to risk you going so far from the castle. Hogsmeade is one thing, but if he goes to London or Wiltshire . . . ." She left off with a shrug.

The specter's ashen lips pursed. "Hardly seems fair, does it? He was a father to me, too, if not by blood then certainly by circumstance."

Hermione carefully lifted an unhappy Crookshanks from her lap—he did not want to be moved, and wasn't exactly pleased that he hadn't a choice in the matter—and set him on the floor. Slipping from her seat, she knelt beside her sister's chair. "I know it's not fair, and I'm so sorry, but it's not safe for either of you right now."

"Miss Granger, about this . . . host body situation," Minerva interrupted the young women, speaking as she claimed the seat Hermione had vacated. "I, well . . . ."

"What, Professor?"

For a quiet handful of seconds, Minerva tapped a finger against her chin in consideration. "I . . . have a thought. You might even call it a plan."

Hermione turned were she knelt and sat on the floor, facing the headmistress. Crossing her legs beneath her and folding her hands in her lap, she afforded the elder witch her undivided attention. Helena turned in her seat as well, propping her elbows on the arm of the chair and resting her chin on her palms so that her face hovered above her sister's.

Both of Rowena Ravenclaw's daughters stared at her with open curiosity, rather evidently expecting to be marveled by her clever brilliance.

Well, as if _that_ wasn't a mildly intimidating thought. Clearing her throat, Minerva McGonagall gave herself a subtle shake and began to explain.

* * *

Drawing a deep breath as she wound her way toward the boundary of the castle grounds, Hermione turned Minerva McGonagall's plan over in her head. It was mad . . . completely, utterly, unquestionably mad. And yet, it would work. She knew it would, she could feel it in her bones. It was Crookshanks, trotting faithfully at her heels, letting out one of his grumpy _meowmph_ sounds that drew her attention.

Looking down at him, she saw his attention was fixed on the boundary. She followed his cranky gaze to find herself looking at a familiar hulking blond figure in the distance.

Quite without the permission, her heart leapt, feeling lighter than she thought it could after learning of her adoptive parents' deception. A smile was forming on her lips and her own mouth wouldn't behave when she tried to make it stop.

He only watched her approach, his hands clasped before him and his bright blue eyes narrowed in what might be speculation.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

Those wonderfully broad shoulders of his moved in a shrug. "You said you needed to go somewhere safe. That couldn't mean the manor, and that wasn't going to mean your Muggle house, not when its the residence of the people who'd upset you. I thought 'she's probably going home.'"

Her smile faded and she swallowed hard. Just as without permission as her heart, her eyes disobeyed her whims by welling with tears. Of course. She'd considered it home _before_ because she'd spent the better part of her teen years here, but she kept forgetting a very simple truth. Hogwarts castle was where she'd also spent her childhood. Where she'd been born, where her beloved mother had died, where she'd been raised until her father had put her into the Bronze Sleep.

Where she'd returned without even realizing she'd been coming home all the while.

"Oh, shit," he said, chuckling warmly. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. "Please tell me you're not crying because of something _I _said."

"It's certainly not you." She sniffled, resting her cheek against his chest. "Thank you."

Thorfinn granted a half-grin as he gently dropped his chin atop her head. "For knowing you so well?"

She breathed a laugh. "Exactly."


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

"You can't ignore them forever," Thorfinn reminded in a gentle tone that night after their strange and motley assortment of family and supporters had shared a strained and silent dinner and Hermione had shut the door to the Hollyhocks Room with more force than necessary.

One would think there would've been _loads_ of things to discuss over the meal. Questions asked, information shared, solutions plotted.

But none of that occurred. And that wasn't solely Hermione's fault. They could've carried on conversation despite the chilly looks she was giving her adoptive parents. She could've told them about Professor McGonagall's possibly mad-sounding scheme, even as Lucius and Narcissa watched Dolohov's body with Salazar Slytherin's spirit inhabiting it lifting a fork like any normal person as though the image had frozen them solid.

But such talks were going to require _all _of them. With their wits about them, with no voices left unheard because of wounded pride or mangled emotions. That was not something they could manage until Hermione's pain could subside enough to let her listen to the Grangers' explanation, nor when the Malfoys were so overcome by shock they could barely form words—a state with which clearly neither of the dignified and eloquent couple was accustomed.

And, by some unspoken mutual agreement, everyone at the table seemed to recognize that. The poor Squib housekeeper had not known what to make of the gathering—fortunately, she also had not recognized the three new guests at the table—but_ had_ picked up on the awkward tension choking the air and had been quick to finish up her nightly duties and excuse herself from the house.

Hermione wrenched back the covers and threw herself face down on the bed. For several heartbeats, she didn't move from that position. For several heartbeats, Thorfinn merely watched her lay like that from where he stood by the door, his arms crossed over his chest and his mouth tugged to one side in a thoughtful expression.

After letting out a long, miserable groan, she turned her head, resting her cheek against the smooth, cool sheet. "I know I can't, and . . . despite all evidence to the contrary, I don't want to ignore them 'forever.' Just for now; a day or two until I know my temper's in control enough that I'll not just let them talk, but I'll let myself listen."

He snickered, the mirthful sound followed by his footfalls as he started across the floor toward the bed. "It's startling how self-aware you can be." That foul beast Crookshanks was off on his own exploring his new environment and little Salazar had taken a shine to the other Salazar and so Hermione had agreed to let the possessed wizard serpent-sit for the night.

Everyone seemed of the mind that she'd had a rather long, stressful, _revealing_, day, and a quiet night alone with her betrothed might be in order.

"I'm not always," she admitted, helpfully lifting limbs at the right moments to assist him as he started undressing her without moving her too much. "It seems the more wounded my pride or feelings, the deeper I think about my own reactions and motivations. Even that is only 'usually' though—sometimes I lose it, just like anyone else."

When she was stripped down, he settled on the mattress beside her. Odd how that she was completely without shame at being naked in front of him, and laying on her stomach, no less, not exactly the most flattering position. Hermione Granger was quite confident in herself, but the urge to cover oneself was ingrained and their relationship was still relatively new.

She put that out of her mind, it was hardly important in comparison to all the other things she was trying to avoid thinking on until she was ready. She wasn't certain what her emotional state was right now. So much had happened so quickly—and that was even weighing it against everything that had happened in the last month of her life—she just wanted to forget all of it for a few blessed hours, but even for how worn out she was, Hermione didn't believe she was tired enough to sleep just yet.

Thorfinn rubbed his hands together, warming his palms before spreading them across her shoulder blades. He considered the moan she uttered a reward, feeling her bunched muscles begin to loosen beneath his touch, already.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She folded her arms under her head and sighed. "About which part, specifically?"

He shrugged, working the tips of his fingers down along her spine and then smoothing his thumbs across the back of her hips. "Any of it? All of it?"

"Gah, there's so much. I don't think I can."

Nodding with a thoughtful frown, he leaned a little closer, adding a bit more pressure to his ministrations. "Well, then, what did you look so deep in thought over when I caught up with you at the castle?"

"Okay, I guess _that _won't be too hard to talk about. I mean, it's a bit . . . odd, but it's not exactly a secret. Not from you or the others, anyway." She was unconsciously moving under his hands, pressing herself more firmly beneath his touch. "Professor McGonagall had an idea. A plan, actually, for what to do about Father's situation."

"Doesn't like a Founder possessing the body of a Death Eater, does she?"

She laughed in spite of herself. "Considering the Founder in question is one she _probably _loathed before all this and the Death Eater in question would _probably _murder all of us for bringing to light what he would see as a despoilment of 'Salazar Slytherin's proud legacy'? I'd say she's not pleased by this turn of events."

Thorfinn snorted a chuckle at that.

"Well, she suggested that we . . . find him a new host body."

His hands stilled just as they were moving lower from her hips. "Professor Minerva McGonagall suggested this?"

Letting out a sigh, Hermione nodded against her arm. "Helena and I were sitting right there for it."

"I . . . um . . . I . . . well . . . ." Thorfinn Rowle had never been quite so without the ability to form a coherent sentence that he was genuinely shocked to hear himself sputtering out single syllable words without meaning or context.

"My thoughts exactly until she elaborated a bit."

He climbed to his feet, merely staring down at her bare form as he tried to collect his thoughts. Slipping out of his robes, he lay down on his stomach beside her, his weight propped up on his elbows.

She smiled at him and he returned the bright expression, blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Go on then," he said with a nod. "Elaborate for me."

For a few heartbeats, Hermione only stared into his eyes, smiling at him like some lovestruck idiot, she was sure. She really was falling hard for him, wasn't she? Of course, he didn't make it much of a challenge. He wasn't perfect, she understood that. He was still the man who'd set Hagrid's hut ablaze and tried to kill her, Harry, and Ron in that Muggle café after Bill and Fleur's wedding. She recognized that those acts had been committed while their true memories had been locked away from them, when neither of them understood who they were or knew _anything_ of their true past.

But the violent and careless nature that had led him to burning her friend's home on a whim, that had probably viewed a 'subdue and capture' order as 'only Potter matters, the others are disposable,' was still in him. Still part of him.

Yet, she knew now he was layered, complicated, just as anyone else. Those traits . . . perhaps they were all that was left of him when his real self had been locked away from him. It made her wonder, really, how much had she changed since remembering their past? Had she simply not noticed? Was that why intellect had always been so important to her, because it was what she'd clung to as her 'personality', just as he had with his volatility?

After a few seconds of the two of them staring at each other in silence like a pair of morons, his smile melted down to a curious, mirthful smirk. "Whatever is going on in that unfathomably large brain of yours?" he asked.

"Just thinking what messes we were without even realizing before we found each other," she said, opting for honesty.

"As I recall, I found you and you fought tooth and nail."

She nudged his elbow with her shoulder. "Before we remembered ourselves, I mean. And that 'fighting' wasn't all me, that was Dumbledore's interference."

He leaned down, nipping at her arm and then rolled onto his back, folding his hands behind his head. "Now, back to this business about McGonagall's plan."

"Yes." Hermione cleared her throat, turning on her side toward him. Reaching out, she started trailing her fingertips over his chest. "Though I'm not sure how I feel about having a discussion that involves both my father and Antonin Dolohov while we're naked in bed."

Grinning, he pointedly tipped down his chin to watch her hand moving lower over his abdomen now. "Let's have this discussion quick, then, so we can move onto more pleasant matters."

"All right. She didn't mean simply putting the Horcrux on someone else. Chances are Dolohov was in a wounded state, anyway, for my father's will to take hold so easily. However, she thinks if perhaps if we can find someone who's, say, no longer in use of their body—"

"Are we looking for a fresh corpse?" he asked, his brows lifted, but not sounding as wholly disturbed by the idea as one might expect. But then, Death Eater.

"No, she means one of the poor fellows in St. Mungo's incurable wing. Not . . . ." She still recalled Neville's parents in the Janus Thickey Ward. Long term, but with hope for small improvements over time. They were looking for someone with a definitive,_ permanent_ condition. "The Muggle term would be brain-dead. Someone who's body is still capable of function, but for whatever reason—usually traumatic injury—their mind is gone with no hope of returning. She thinks if we find one such person, who has no living relatives to miss them . . . ." She shrugged, her voice trailing off.

"I get it. Do you feel bad about taking someone's body like that?"

She frowned. There was a time she'd have found this a ghastly notion, even as she told herself, pragmatically, there was nothing actually 'wrong' in it, not if they went about it all as carefully and thoughtfully as they were intending.

"I'm not thrilled by the idea," she answered after a moment's consideration, "but I do believe if we cast predictive charms to reveal whether the person _truly _has no chance of recovering themselves, so we know for certain we're not actually stealing their chance at life, then it isn't a terrible option. And if we do it right, timing-wise, I mean, we can get my father a host body that won't be missed, _and _we can subdue Dolohov before we remove the Horcrux. Deliver him to the Ministry, and reveal that he'd been holding the Grangers, but we managed to get the drop on him and retrieve my parents unharmed."

"Sounds like you ladies really have this all planned out."

"We do have one condition."

His brows drew upward. "We?"

"Professor McGonagall and me . . . and Helena, too, actually."

"Which is?"

Her movements stalled, just as she neared the trail of golden hair below his navel. "That whomever we end up choosing, we find out whatever we can about them and hold a proper service for them. Even if they're never coming back, it's right we should pay some form of tribute for what their absence is permitting possible for us."

He curled a hand over hers, dragging her fingers lower and then let go again. "Don't think anyone will object to that."

"We'll see." Her gaze on his, she stroked down his length to find him already hard.

When a half-smile curved her lips, he asked, "Moving onto other matters now, are we?"

"Why don't you have a check?" She was feeling a bit bold, but this was exactly what she needed right now and they both knew it.

Pulling herself up, she moved over him. He watched her face as she settled across his hips, waiting for him to comply. Her fingers wrapped him still, holding him behind her. She stroked him slow and gentle as she watched his face right back.

He slid his hand between them, loving her sharp little intake of breath at the contact. Oh, she was definitely done talking. There was a twinge of disappointment, he supposed while working his fingers against her as she lifted herself, that they hadn't needed to do anything more to be ready for each other. But then he also supposed simply being naked in bed together might've been enough of a push for the two of them on a night like this.

Hermione guided him, slipping only the head into her and then held herself there, her gaze still on his face.

Thorfinn made a tutting sound as he rubbed a little faster, his free hand circling her to cup her arse with splayed fingers. "Don't be cruel," he murmured in that gravely pitch, sending a sweet shiver up her spine.

"But I'm so good at it," she answered in a breathless whisper, yet she found she couldn't wait, either.

Lowering herself onto him, she bit hard into her bottom lip to keep from moaning perhaps a little too loud at his entry. The bastard left his fingers right were they were so they were now wedged between their bodies, pressing more tightly against her still as she started rocking.

"You really just . . . ." She took a breath as she worked her body over his. "Don't want this to last very long tonight, do you?"

He answered with low, rumbling chuckle. "Just giving my future bride what she needs, aren't I?"

Shuddering, she rocked harder. "I haven't agreed to the honor the betrothal yet, remember?"

Holding her to him, he rolled them over. "Yeah," he answered, pausing, though she was not having any of that—she locked her ankles behind him and kept rocking her hips beneath him. "But I'm chipping away at that 'yet.'"

She cried out as he slammed his pelvis forward, driving into her fast and hard. The force of it, the delicious, mildly painful sensation, stilled her. Her limbs curled tighter around him, clinging helplessly as he withdrew and rocked forward at a steady rhythm. Every few strokes, he'd pause a moment and then thrust into her, the movement sharp, drawing a gasp from her each time.

Hermione hated as much as she loved how easily he made her come. She pressed her mouth against his shoulder, muffling an ecstatic scream. She hated as much as she loved the sound of his smug, self-satisfied laughter rumbling low against her ear.

Thorfinn wasn't far behind her. He couldn't hold back once he felt her body clench around him, warm and tight and sweetly familiar. He froze over her, glad for it as her orgasm ebbed enough that she was rocking beneath him in quick, shivery jerks while he spent himself.

When they settled against each other, catching their breath, she untangled her limbs from him. He rolled onto his back beside her, his eyes closed and a smile curving his lips.

"You really can't stop talking for long, can you?" he asked, humor edging his words.

"Like me to be quieter during sex, would you?"

"Quieter? Not at all. Maybe less chatty—those are two very different things."

They lay in silence for a few heartbeats before he sat up to grab the covers. In a single easy motion, he pulled the soft material over them as he dropped back down next to her.

A startled breath tore out of her. "Oh, no! Thorfinn, we forgot something."

His brows pinched together as he turned his head against the pillow to meet her gaze. "Hmm?"

"Not just now. The first time, too. I mean, at the inn and my house we remembered, but . . . ." She let out a sigh and shook her head. "We forgot to use a contraceptive charm."

Hermione sat up, unable to believe that either of them—never mind both of them, together—had been so stupid. "I . . . I've been so distracted by everything that's been going on it hadn't occurred to me I wasn't keeping track of my menstrual cycle. I—I can't even remember where I'm supposed to be on it right now."

She shook her head, reminding herself to breathe. "There's a chance I could be pregnant!"

His face fell, but the gleam in his eyes was _anything_ but unhappy.

"Oh, shit." A surprised laugh burst out of him. "Just so we're clear," he tacked on hurriedly, "that was _not_ part of my attempt to chip away at the word 'yet.'"

A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. Of course she hadn't for a moment believed he'd let this slide on purpose. But she thought, well, honestly, that he would be upset by the possibility. That _she_ would be upset by the possibility.

Strangely, even with all the madness that might befall them if they could bring her true parentage before the public eye, if something went wrong with her father's Horcrux, or Minerva's plan . . . there was a calmness in this. A bizarre certainty.

"I know," she said softly, taking a few breaths to collect herself.

Snuggling down against him, she rested her cheek against his chest. "I actually think that it . . . might somehow be okay if, well, if we_ are_. But a bit of a nervous wreck about how we'd tell everyone else."

"It's late now." Thorfinn pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Tomorrow we'll have you checked out. We won't worry about telling anyone anything unless there's something _to_ tell."

Nodding against him, she asked, "You're not upset by this? Really, honestly?"

A gentle laugh rumbled in his chest. "Really, honestly."

Hermione let her eyes drift closed on that thought. It could be nothing, just poor timing and her period was right around the corner, or . . . they could be expecting a child who would be half Thorfinn Rowle, half Hermione Granger/Sabina Slytherin.

Lulled by the steady thudding of his heart beneath her ear, she fell asleep wondering if they baby would have her wild brown hair and his mirthful blue eyes.


End file.
